


The Dark Tunnel

by ayesakara



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 51,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5078287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayesakara/pseuds/ayesakara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if things had happened differently on the Ocampa staircase during the attempt to rescue Chakotay? Set in the Caretaker/Voyager's early season 1 era. Major Character Death story with a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Devastation

**Author's Note:**

> This story uses major events taking place in Caretaker and the start of Voyager's season 1. Now's the time for me to perhaps come out with a warning since some might call this story a 'major character death story with a twist' but I'd like to assure you that I personally am not fond of death stories and have put more emphasis on the said 'twist' than the death part of this strange little tale. Having said that, I won't spoil it anymore for you except to ask you to please proceed with an open mind. Everything is not as it appears to be and there are mysteries afoot.

**Dark Tunnel 1 - Devastation**

 

 

I grab the shivering steel rail with shaking hands, my eyes blinking furiously to clear the clouds from my vision.

It’s not the menacing near-darkness of the cave that blurs my vision. Neither is it the dust and debris falling from the quaking rocks above and around me.

It’s the heat.

It’s the slick, thick sweat that rolls down into my fluttering eyelashes, making my eyes water, forcing me to squeeze them shut for a ceaseless moment; only to snap them open again as the realization sinks that every second gone may be a second too late.

My heart pounds thunderously as I shuffle my feet to the left and right, desperate to find a firm foothold, desperate to move down the stairs so that I can accomplish what I came down here for.

Desperate to save the life of a man who means more to me than I will ever admit to his face.

"Get out of here, Paris, before the whole thing comes down."

The sudden reproach sends a shiver down my spine as a wetness of a different kind swells up under my lashes.

I look at him lying on the creaking iron floor, sprawled over the platform, just a few steps below me. I watch as he closes one large shaking hand over a metal bar, painfully attempting to huddle over the side of the railing, trying not to rest too much of his weight on his broken leg.

And failing.

A hurtful hiss is exhaled from between teeth clenched in unbearable pain.

I try to gauge his emotions, wanting to catch his eyes, to figure out how best to approach him in his obviously uncivil disposition.

Still he keeps his eyes averted from mine. He won’t give me the chance to look into his eyes, the chance to see his fear, to sense his terror that the stairs will crumble and he will fall.

Yet I don’t have to look into his eyes to know he’s scared.

I can smell his fear, his sweat, and his pain. I want to take it all away from him. I want to get him to safety.

Suddenly, I notice something sparkle against his chest - a glittering carved stone, or an engraved metal emblem, or perhaps a piece of polished ivory, I am not sure what - hanging around his neck with a thin string, but when I blink its gone. I blink again, wondering what it was, and then let it go deciding my eyes are probably playing tricks with me.

Several dozen meters above us, another explosion rocks the surface and the whole staircase shudders in agony.

God, I have to get him to safety now.

"Look, I know you are scared, Chakotay," I say to him. "But you don’t have to fight me because I am trying to save your life."

Now he looks at me, his head whipping up to pierce me with his penetrating, black stare and I feel myself cringing at the expression on his face. The hate, the disgust, and the disdain - all vie for supremacy with that unbearable hint of sorrow that clouds his brown eyes.

Unfathomable, unendurable sorrow.

"I don’t want your benevolence, Paris," he grates corrosively, his face tightening, his voice hoarse with pain yet firm in decision. "I want no more lies, no more deceit, no more fucking hypocritical stints of sympathizing with the cause." He grits his teeth. "You don’t have to act anymore. I know your truth."

I stare at him, my eyes wide. I can’t believe he wants to bring up our past at a time like this. Doesn’t he realize I only want to save his ass and get him the hell out of here?

"I didn’t betray you, Chakotay," I plead with him, taking one more step down. "I never betrayed you."

The caves rumble as another explosion shakes the planet surface, the sound of the groaning metal grating my nerves, as the whole staircase shudders in sync with the quaking rocks.

"What?" He narrows his eyes in scorn, his face tight with hurt. "You didn’t help the Starfleet to track us down?" He clenches his teeth. "You didn’t agree to Janeway’s offer to get you out of Auckland so that you could help her catch us? What was it that you wanted, Paris? Did you want to see all of us get thrown into maximum security prison for the rest of our lives?"

His expression shifts, something unreadable fleetingly passing his features, but I can’t recognize what it is. He grits his teeth. "You did all that so that you could walk free, didn’t you? Mission finally accomplished. Daddy’s little boy at last making him proud."

His words cut through my soul as his cold, dark stare burns me.

"NO!" I scream.

He’s got it all wrong. That’s not how it went. How can he believe I would sink so low?

"You’re wrong, Chakotay." My voice shakes as I plead at him with my eyes. "I did agree to Janeway’s offer but I never for a second thought that we would find you."

The metal scaffolding shakes with another explosion and the realization that I am losing this argument pummels into my gut.

Precious seconds are slipping by. This is no time for arguments.

"I don’t believe you," he yells, his hands gripping and slipping through the heaving, rocking rails. "You lied to me."

His agonized voice shakes as he closes his clammy fingers around the slippery fence, barely hanging onto the balustrade that now seems suspended by mere hinges.

"Chakotay!" The fear that this would all end in vain suffocates me, as I slide down frantically to reach him with an outstretched hand. "Please, give me your hand."

The stairs I stand on jolt violently as another explosive beam hits the surface and I find myself slammed into the side of a metal fence. I somehow scramble to my feet, turning to face him again. "Please."

I reach out for him.

"I trusted you." His eyes glisten with unshed sorrow, pain, and something else. Something final. "You sold us out."

And with those words I finally recognize the elusive emotion in his expression: Resignation.

The metal shrieks in protest, as another explosion on the surface sways the entire scaffolding. I watch, aghast, as the metal juncture joining the platform that Chakotay lies on begins to crumble under the pressure. In despair, I stagger down a step.

"Chakotay," I scream at him, my hands flailing out in desperation but the metal floor has gotten too weak to take my additional weight. The stairs give away under my faltering feet and I am thrown forward onto the side of the railing, the platform breaking under the pressure.

The cave suddenly fills with stifling dust, grime and falling debris, and for a second I can’t see anything. The roar of the grinding metal deafens my ears as I scream for him again and reach out one last time to grab him, to save him, to get him out of there.

And find empty air.

I blink in horror, only to see that the platform he was lying on is gone.

It’s gone.

It’s fallen.

I didn’t get him.

He’s fallen.

He’s gone.

"CHAKOTAY!!"

I scream his name in the oppressive, suffocating darkness, as unashamed tears roll down my cheeks, and I hear my own cry echoing back to me in the Ocampan caves.

I failed him.

I let him fall to his death.

"Chakotay."

My pathetic whimper is the last thing I remember from that day.

 

 

"Get the hell up, Paris."

I am jolted awake by the heel of the boot that connects with the side of my ribs. I scramble up on the lumpy mattress, my sides burning, my pulse racing raggedly, and look blearily around the cubicle searching for the source of the voice and the abuse.

The bright lights are blinding to my half-asleep eyes, my heart still pounds at the burning memories of the nightmare. I swallow heavily to calm myself, to get my nerves under control, to get ready for the day that is to come.

"And stop sniveling, for gods sake. You KNOW they hate it when you snivel in your fucking sleep," the same voice continues. "Pathetic pussified sonofabitch."

Baxter. Only he would use this kind of endearment.

The ‘they’ in question are more partial to asshole, slut and whore.

"You’re supposed to finish your pet welding project in the third sector today, and you’d better do it, you fucking loser, otherwise you’ll be in big trouble."

Funny. Every work I am forced to do becomes my pet project.

Never mind that I may have been dragged to it kicking and screaming, while being beaten, kicked, thrashed and pounded all the way.

It is always my pet project.

And if I refuse, ‘they’ make sure I have hell to pay.

They.

They are the amalgamated mutation of two reluctant groups of people that are being forced to live together on this hellhole.

They are the scum, the lowlife of all existence as I know it; the grotesque monstrosity that dominates, and represses, the humanoid population on this cursed gorge of a planet.

Baxter grabs my left bicep in a vice-like grip and pulls me out of the bed. His other hand disappears from my view and moves down my body and I cringe in disgust as one grime-filled fingernail fleetingly brushes against my hip.

"What’s the matter, babe?" He smiles sickly at me. "Did I hurt you when I kicked you into wakefulness?"

I pull my arm out of his claws. "Get your hands off me," I snap at him, as I stand up straighter in front of the man, gritting my teeth.

He shrugs as he blows a kiss at me, and I turn away from him, walking out of the cubicle I’ve been assigned.

I once read somewhere that the scum always accumulated at the bottom of the vessel.

I thought that I had seen the worst, the lowest and the most condemned, in my year long incarceration at Auckland.

I never realized how wrong I was.

You don’t have to go to prison to see the refuse of the civilization.

All you have to do is take a bunch of otherwise normal people and throw them in an unexpected situation, take away the leadership they are used to following, and throw in a horde of savage enemies for added entertainment. Then you can have your very own inescapable, private hell right there.

This planet is the pit, the bottom, the abyssal hell-equivalent of the delta quadrant.

‘They’ are the scum of all existence, having finally shed their civilized masks, and shown their true ugly faces after being abandoned on this godforsaken world.

They are the remaining crews of the deceased Federation starship Voyager and the equally deceased Maquis cruiser Crazy Horse.

I hear Baxter muttering something about how he misses replicators and clothes refreshers to one of his ex-fleeters, and I try to forget the feeling of his slimy fingers on my skin.

They are scum and this is my private hell.

And I have no one else to blame but myself.

It’s all my fault.

I failed Chakotay.

I let him fall to his death.

 

 

The dying rays of Lovaugim’s setting sun beat down the side of my face. The slight breeze that started with the advent of dusk feels cool on my sunburnt skin.

I rub the sweat off my eyes with the right shoulder of my dungarees and carefully try to guide my tired, shaking hand, which is holding the sonic welder, back in place between the juncture of the two metal sheets.

The work today has been slow, arduous and brutally punishing. It has not been much different from any other day actually.

But welding days are always a little harsher than usual.

First, we get no food in the daytime and staying hungry after the paltry meal I have in the morning is tough in the face of the hard work we are forced to do in the excruciating heat.

And second, our ‘supervisor’ for the welding days is one callous, revolting bitch.

"What’s the matter, Paris, the work getting too boring for you?" the imposing, red-haired woman standing behind me snarls, her shoulders squared, one hand purposefully rapping the long wooden staff against her right thigh. "If you are bored, let me know, I will arrange for something a little more exciting for you."

I turn my head around and stare at her, squinting my eyes against the glaring sun and notice a covert half-smirk on her face.

My heart sinks when I recognize the look in her dark, vaporous gaze. It’s the same look she gets when she is either frustratingly horny or extremely pissed. Either instance means trouble for anyone who bears the brunt of her wrath.

But I am well versed in ways to deal with her. I have had almost twelve months practice, after all. It doesn’t mean I will be safe from her temper, but it will probably assure me a somewhat satisfied state of mind in the aftermath.

In this hellhole, in the midst of this depressive, oppressive subversion, a moderately mollified state of mind is the best anyone can hope for.

"What’s the matter, Seska," I drawl out in my cockiest tone. "You aren’t GETTING any lately?"

Her face suddenly freezes, her eyes turning colder if possible, and the snarling features turn an uglier shade of red.

Amazed, I look at the transformation with wide eyes.

It baffles my mind every time I see Seska when she is pissed off.

I always thought Bajorans were soft-spoken, nonviolent people. I met many Bajorans in the academy, and on duty, and always found them to be compassionate and caring. Even the Maquis I met in Chakotay’s cell, after I was kicked out of Starfleet, were proud and passionate about the cause, but always warm-hearted and gentle at core.

Seska, on the other hand, doesn’t look like any Bajoran I have ever met.

I am rudely shaken out of my thoughts as one end of her wooden staff comes flying at me and savagely hits the same side of ribs that made friends with Baxter’s boot this morning. Gasping, I double over in pain and stagger back from her, trying to avoid any more rude surprises.

For a second or two, I feel a string of expletives simmering at the tip of my tongue and I have to swallow them back with effort, knowing that uttering them will only provoke further attack.

Instead, I grit my teeth and look up at her, my burning eyes conveying my defiance in a way no words can ever do.

Her acid gaze pierces mine and once again I am reminded of how odd she looks as a Bajoran. Her eyes are too cold, her face too cruel, her whole make up a little too vehement for the members of her species.

If I didn’t know better, I would think Seska was a fake Bajoran.

The corners of my lips twitch as I wonder how she would react if I said that to her face. If she’s as proud of her heritage as the other Bajorans I know, she would be pretty damn ticked off.

She probably notices the hint of a smile flickering at the corners of my mouth, because I suddenly find myself sprawled on the ground, the sole of her leather boot jabbing me on my belly, pushing me down on the hard ground.

"Get back to work, Paris," she snarls at me again. "You waste too much of my freaking time."

And with one last punishing thrust of her boot, she pulls back, straightens up and, turning around, moves off to her next mark.

As I brush myself off and, ignoring the various aches and pains that needle down my body, turn around to face my unfinished task, a stray thought comes to me.

For the thousandth time, I wonder if life on Lovaugim would have been better for me if I had decided not to transport the Maquis crew from their cruiser onto Voyager.

If Seska and her cronies hadn’t been here, would this gorge still resemble hell or would it have been a somewhat better place to live?

After all, it was me whom Janeway had left in charge at Voyager’s conn, when she beamed down to the Caretaker’s array with Tuvok, and it was I alone who made the decision to transport the Maquis crew to Voyager after their ship was badly damaged.

Would Harry have lived if we didn’t have the Maquis terrorists scampering around Voyager?

I am not so sure.

I am not even sure whether it was the Maquis who killed Harry.

It could’ve been the Kazon.

I mean, Maquis or not, Voyager was still damaged beyond repair and I had no other choice but to crash-land her on this planet.

It was a nightmarish situation. So many people were wounded, many fatally, others critically. How could anyone have been ready to defend themselves when the fucking Kazon followed us down to this planet?

I had never seen so much blood in my life.

I lost the body count of how many Starfleet crewmembers were slaughtered that day.

I know many Maquis died too.

And quite a few number of Kazon as well.

So who knows who killed Harry?

Or that furry Talaxian man.

Not to mention that young Ocampa girl who apparently disappeared and was never found again. Disappeared, along with most of the women in the Starfleet and Maquis crews, all of whom vanished off the face of Voyager, and this planet, never to be heard from again.

I wonder what the Kazon did to them.

I also sometimes wonder what became of Captain Janeway and Tuvok. Were they ever able to get off the array? Some say that the Kazon landed on the array and killed them too.

I wonder if they were killed quickly and mercifully. Or if they were tortured and tormented for a long time before being barbarously hacked to death.

I have seen a few such killings on this very planet, in front of my very eyes.

I have seen the scum of Starfleet do it to their own fellow crewmates.

I wonder if it could’ve happened differently.

I hear footsteps coming my way and shake myself out of my daze.

"Paris, I don’t understand why you goad Seska like this."

It’s Torres; coming with her daily doze of antibiotics for the injuries that are inflicted on me everyday in new and sundry places.

I look at the half-Klingon and suddenly feel like a criminal, guilty, for thinking that life could have been better for me without the Maquis.

"You shouldn’t rile her up like this." She frowns at me and presses the tube in my palm. "She not only stays pissed at everyone else after that, but also takes her anger out on YOU yourself later on."

I find myself smiling at the Maquis engineer who regularly steals medicine for me from the infirmary of the same people who inflict those injuries on me on an equally regular basis.

She’s one of those resilient few women that no one, not even the Kazon, was able to touch.

"You know what, Torres," I grin at her. "Goading Seska and the other bastards is the highlight of my existence these days."

She snorts and shaking her head at me straightens up again. "Pig," she growls affectionately. "You’ll never learn."

And with that, she turns around and walking down the same path she came through, disappears between the tents and cubicles, leaving me alone with a sonic welder in one hand, and a tube of antibiotic cream in the other.

Oh no, life couldn’t have been better if I hadn’t transported the Maquis to Voyager. I can’t imagine how I would’ve survived all these months if it hadn’t been for Torres and others like her.

It isn’t the Maquis’ fault that things have turned out the way they have.

It isn’t because of Starfleet or the Kazon either.

I really have no one else to blame but me.

It’s my fault.

Mine alone.

It’s all happened because I failed Chakotay.

I let him fall to his death.

 

 

The air is thick with tension, as pain and fear ooze off our burning, sweat-soaked bodies like so many vapors drifting off scorching, red-hot metal.

Another explosion rocks the planet surface several dozen meters above us, and the whole staircase shakes in abject terror.

"Get out of here, Paris, before the whole thing comes down."

I look at him curled up against the side of the railing, face screwed in pain, his large, strong hands desperately hanging onto the metal bar, hanging onto dear life.

"I am not gonna leave you here, Chakotay." I take a careful step down the rocking stairs. "I told the captain that I would get you out of here and I am not leaving without you."

His head whips up at this, as he pierces me with his penetrating, black stare, and I feel myself cringing at the expression on his face. For a split second I catch sight of a small shiny object dangling from a string around his neck, but before I can ascertain what it is, I am distracted by the look on his face. The utter betrayal, contempt, and hate in his eyes stab at my heart and I feel my throat tightening at the flow of overwhelming emotions.

"You don’t have to fucking patronize me, Paris," he snarls at me, his eyes burning with anger and pain. "I am sure the captain won’t mind a Maquis terrorist falling to his death in a nameless cave on a nameless planet." His voice shakes yet he continues on. "Isn’t that why you agreed to help her find me? So that Starfleet could throw my crew and I into prison for the rest of our lives? I am sure the admiral would be very proud of you now."

His words cut through my soul, his cold, dark gaze blistering me from the inside out.

"NO!" I scream. That’s a lie. I never wanted it to happen this way. I can’t believe he would think so low of me. "You’re wrong, Chakotay." My voice trembles as I look at him with pleading eyes. "That’s not what I came here for. I know I agreed to the captain’s offer but I never thought that I would find you."

The metal structure trembles as the planet surface is rocked by another explosion. I watch, dismayed, as the platform Chakotay lies on shifts under the pressure of the blast and one of his hands loses its grip off the railing.

"You’re lying," he screams, trying to claw his lose hand back onto the railing. "You betrayed me."

The shifting metal groans against my jarring nerves, as the stairs I stand on shudder in sympathy. Yet, I have to move and I have to move fast. I grab the railing on either side of me, and stumble down towards him.

"Give me your hand, Chakotay." I call out to him, my voice hoarse with fear. "Please, give me your hand."

Suddenly, the whole cave is filled with dust and pieces of falling debris as another explosion occurs on the surface, and the staircase shakes violently enough to throw me backwards on the stairs. I watch in sheer horror as the floor Chakotay lies on crumbles and his other hand slips off the railing as well.

With a cry, I scramble up on my feet and try to reach down to him, my hands outstretched.

My eyes lock with his for just one final second.

"You sold us out," he whispers, his voice tinged with unimaginable sorrow.

And with that he slides and falls off the platform, as my agonized scream fills the empty cave and resonates back to ring in my ears.

"CHAKOTAY."

 

 

I bolt upright on my bed, my heart pounding, my breath heaving and my clammy fingers scratching vacant air only to come back empty-handed. The night’s warm breeze makes my sweat-soaked skin shiver in the still darkness. My hands tremble with loss and tears roll down my face as pinching, voiceless sobs wrench my hoarse throat.

It’s always like this.

Always the same, on these painful nights, when the nightmare comes back to me in full force - alive, breathing, flinging those sorrowful memories back at me.

Always the same. Yet each time there’s something a little bit different.

A word here, a look there. A changed expression, a somewhat different exchange of conversation.

Always something to remind me that it was a new dream.

And yet always the same.

Always reminding me of the same thing, of my one cursed failure.

Reminding me of the fact that I lost him.

Lost him before I had a chance to tell him how I felt, how important he had been, how much his respect had meant.

Lost him before I could do any of these things.

Reminding me that I failed him.

I let him fall to his death.

 

 

Today’s pet project is digging wells.

But I am not alone today. There are fourteen other guys, Starfleet and Maquis alike - people who weren’t naturally cut out to be miscreants, reprobates or psychopathic murderers - assigned to various different tasks along with me.

Yosa, one time Maquis - and full time hooligan - is regulating the day’s proceedings with a surly condescension tinted on his frowning, impatient face.

In other words, it’s his turn to stand in the shade to pass orders, throw insults and occasionally raise the whip at fifteen dehydrated, hurting men, clad in the minimum of rags, toiling the day’s hard chores in the scorching sun.

Four similarly armed fellow-thugs watch along from the sidelines, enjoying the show.

As if digging a well in the hard, brittle site chosen for Lovaugim’s first water extraction project isn’t hard enough; we have to bear the vengeance of scamps and bullies too, in the midst of all this sadistic perversion.

I remember a long gone sultry summer day, back home in San Francisco, when I dug a well in our backyard.

I was six years old. My uncles and aunts had all come with their families to stay for the weekend. Two of my cousins, Tammy and Richie, were both around my age and we were playing an ‘ancient technologies’ game in the backyard.

I remember spending hours digging a 20-inch deep, 12-inch in diameter well in the soft ground, which I then carefully and painstakingly lined and paved with a fine coating of mortar, and left to dry for a few more hours.

Richie replicated a small wooden bucket, which he fitted to a pulley that Tammy helped him make, following an example she had learnt at school, and attached them to the well.

Tammy’s mom, Aunt Liz – who was dad’s younger sister – helped me build a small battery using only a lemon, an 18-gauze copper wire, steel clips and sandpaper – all from an experiment I had dug out the previous night.

The well was then filled with clear water and the battery was attached to the pulley that, when operated, would pull the bucket filled with water out of the well. And there and then, we had created our very own battery-operated, homemade tube-well.

Even the admiral had stood along with the rest of the family and had smiled and applauded us on our joint effort.

I had felt so thrilled to make him proud of me.

That is one of my last memories of my father smiling at me for doing something fun.

I am taken out of my daydream when I hear a scuffle behind me and turn around just in time to see Yosa kicking out Baytart’s legs from under him, causing him to crash to the ground. The manacles that are locked around both his feet are magnetized at once and both his legs are locked together immediately, hindering any movement from his waist down.

I wince, and have to willfully clench my hands at my sides to stop myself from flying at the Maquis, as he viciously kicks Baytart a few times to drive whatever point he was trying to make home. I hear quiet yelps and groans come from the fallen man and close my eyes in pity as I watch Yosa’s whip-holding hand rise and come down in quick succession a half dozen times.

No one dares coming to the young pilot’s rescue lest they want the same fate to befall them.

My heart pounds in sympathy as I stand quietly for a few long seconds and let Yosa simmer at the pilot, letting the anger, the frustration – for whatever reason it flared up – drain out of his system. After a while, he apparently loses interest and turns around, demagnetizing the manacles around Baytart’s feet.

Seeing the opportunity, I quietly walk towards the pilot and bend down to help him up. Silent tears streak his face, as my eyes make note of angry gashes and marks across his bruised chest, and I feel a wave of anguish and anger pass through me.

"Hey."

I freeze as I hear Yosa come behind me. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

I don’t answer him until I have pulled Baytart to his feet and only then do I straighten my shoulders and turn around to face our keepers. What I see makes my blood turn cold.

Yosa has taken his shirt off and his fellow-thugs, who have followed him out of the shed, are in the process of stripping. I watch with growing disgust and fear as their hands move in unison over their groins, readying their anatomies for the diversion they seem to have planned for today.

"What do you think you are doing, Paris, helping our game stand up and all?" Yosa sneers, advancing on us. "He’s in such fine state for a little entertainment, y’know." He looks behind me at Baytart, licking his lips provocatively, and I feel a shudder run down my spine. "We’re just getting in the mood, didn’t you know that?"

Feeling my heart thudding with a mixture of increasing alarm and trepidation, I gather up my courage and stand straighter, blocking their path. "Look, he’s hurt and in pain." I try hard to use a conciliatory tone. "You’ve had your fun kicking him around, why don’t you just leave him alone now?"

"Tom…" I hear Baytart whisper from behind and notice one of Yosa’s men, a Fleeter, walk around us from the left, moving in position behind us.

"Get out of here…" I hiss at Baytart, as a second man makes his way to our back from the right side.

"But Tom…" Baytart’s voice shakes.

"Now." I wheeze impatiently, praying he will listen to me.

Suddenly, I find the neck of my sweatshirt gripped in Yosa’s large hands as someone pulls my hair from behind and a fist connects with the back of my neck. I grunt in pain, falling forward as Yosa grips my shoulders in a tight grasp. I feel a slick wetness brush my cheek and pull back to see Yosa’s tongue slipping in and out of his mouth in a squalid dance, his breathy whisper tingling my ear.

"What are you gonna do if I let him go, Paris?"

Sudden bile rises up my throat and a sick terror settles in the pit of my stomach, as I spit out my hatred on the vile face leering down at me.

I have to stop them, my brain says, as my fear-stricken heart pounds inside my chest.

Yosa howls in fury and muttering a spew of curses comes unleashed on my face, punching and pummeling and pounding at me, his mottled face turning dark with anger. I feel my jaw give away under the assault as my nose shatters and I feel my face and neck and chest get sprayed with fresh, burning blood.

I scream in agony and clenching my right hand into a tight ball, strike out at the man in front of me. My fist connects to his jaw with a resounding crack, as my knee strikes out to connect with his hip, making him cry out in pain, but my shoulders clutched in his hands somehow lessen the force of the initial blow. And suddenly I am lying on the ground, as my arms are gripped and pulled up over my head and more than one pair of boots kicks my abdomen, my ribs, and my thighs. I pull my legs and kick out at my attackers but the heavy manacles make it impossible to do much damage.

"Fucking Maquis traitor..." I hear someone yell and try to recognize the voice but fail.

Too many hands land on my body, sliding up and slipping down, pinching, scratching, squeezing, as my clothes are ripped off and pushed out of the way.

I never stop struggling. Frenzied with fear and anger, I kick and punch and grapple and strike out whenever one of them loses their grip on my hands. I feel skin breaking under my jabs, hear their grunts and frustrated curses. But each time my arms are grabbed and pulled over my head again, as more fists fall on my face and chest, leaving them bloody and sore.

"Oh the slut is in fine mood today." It’s Yosa. "Yeah, fight Tommy, I love it when you fight, you turn me on so much when you scream."

"Get off me, you bastards," I howl at them, but they are already gripping me by my shoulders and turning me around.

"Oh but we are only just starting, Tommy," Yosa sniggers, as my legs are pulled apart and I feel their slimy hands on my back, and thighs, and ass.

"How would the Maquis traitor like to feel a Starfleet dick in his ass?" someone else laughs as I am pinned tightly to the ground, unable to shake them off.

"Noooooooooooooo," I cry out, my bleeding face pressed into the dirt, as angry tears prick the back of my eyes.

"Asshole, sold us out to the fucking Federation," I hear another one growl as brutal, invading fingers come clawing and scratching at me, making me shudder in disgust.

Mocking, biting words swarm into my ears, digging tunnels into my head, like too many crawling, burrowing insects; and I close my eyes, trying to block out the voices and the sensations. I make an attempt to go deeper into my mind, to remember that clear, sunny day back home in San Francisco, and the well I had dug at age six. I remember how the admiral had stood and applauded me on my feat and wonder what he would think of me if he saw me right this minute.

A seething fire splits its way into my gut as I am invaded in the most defiling way possible, and I feel a burning, flaming agony melt into my senses. I am hardly aware of anything but that pain, and the shameful tears that roll down my face unhindered, as the fire spreads out in all directions, choking me, stifling me.

Amidst the unbearable debasement, the realization dawns on me that the admiral would probably never want to have anything to do with me after all that I’ve gone through in this hellhole.

He wouldn’t want to taint the Paris name.

I can’t remember when darkness encroached onto my senses and I fell into the waiting arms of oblivion.

 

 

I tightly grip the shaking metal rail with hands too damp with sweat and choke as grime and dust fill the cave and my nostrils.

"Get out of here, Paris, before the whole thing comes down."

The railing slips out of my grasp with each tremor that jolts the staircase and swallowing hard the crushing fear, I clutch it again.

He is hurt and scared and terrified. Yet he still wants to push me away. Still wants to pretend he doesn’t need my help.

A sudden confused surge of anger comes unleashed within me from some deep dark place inside, but I make no effort to calm or ground myself.

"What the fuck are you trying to prove, Chakotay?" I scream at him instead. "I am standing here trying to get you the fuck out of this godforsaken cave and you are playing fucking hard to get?"

His head snaps up and he pierces me with his penetrating, black gaze, the heat in his eyes turning something inside me.

"Fuck you, Paris," his voice shakes with pain, his eyes burning with anger, and yet I see an unmistakable tinge of grief clouding the deep brown depths. "You’re a traitor,"

Suddenly I notice something sparkle against his neck and I blink, trying to focus on the object, but its gone just as fast. His dejected whisper, stabbing at my heart, instead diverts my attention. "You sold us out."

"I didn’t betray you, Chakotay," I moan as I find my anger dissipating and in its place sharp, slithering tentacles of fear grip my heart, squeezing my chest, making it hard for me to breath. "Give me your hand, Chak." I plead with him, my heart in my mouth, as I carefully descend the rocking steps to reach him. "Please, there is no time."

And there isn’t.

It’s already too late.

I watch in horror as the floor Chakotay lies on crumbles under the pressure and, with a scream, I scramble to my feet, moving towards him to catch him one last time but find nothing but a frigid emptiness in my grasp.

"CHAKOTAY."

 

 

Someone is calling my name. Gentle fingers on my face. Something cool and damp being rubbed over my forehead and my closed eyes.

"Tom."

It’s a familiar voice that calls me from far, far away and I contemplate following it out of the dark cave I am trapped in. Yes, it’s a cave, and there is utter stillness inside, and yet I feel strangely content staying right where I am. I don’t want to leave this sanctuary, this quiet, tranquil refuge that gives me a kind of peace that I don’t think I’ll find anywhere else.

"Tom."

But the voice persists. I try to close my ears to it but it continues to prod me, crawling into my head, tapping into my consciousness.

Leave me alone; I try to tell the voice. But my mouth doesn’t move. I feel confused for a second. Why won’t my mouth cooperate? I reach out with my arms instead, pushing the invisible voice away, telling it to let me be. I don’t want to be bothered, I say silently, please leave me alone.

My only answer is sudden spikes of raw, biting pain that assault me, piercing my jaw, my face, my head, my arms. I groan as tendrils of liquid fire settle down onto my abdomen and my legs.

"Tom," the voice repeats, trailing me from some far away dismal corner of my sanity.

I can’t hide anywhere. The voice is everywhere.

The voice comes closer, nearer, following me, as flickers of consciousness slowly break onto the dark horizon of my mind.

My breath ragged, needles of pain beating down my body, I slowly open my eyes to the glaring lights on the ceiling of Voyager’s sickbay.

"Tom, don’t try to talk," the voice has a face now and its bending over me, touching my face, my shoulders, with kind fingers, "Don’t try to move just yet either. We still have some work to do."

For some reason, the voice is reassuring, non-threatening, and I find myself relaxing a bit.

I am in the sickbay. Which means I really must be hurt badly. They don’t bring us to the sickbay unless there is some serious damage done. Though, for some reason I can’t remember what really happened to me.

"Here." A cool rag is being rubbed gently over my neck and my chest and I flinch as it passes over my tender ribs. "Shh, it’s okay, let me use the knitter over here. We’re almost done."

As my jumbled brain heeds the soft hum of the bone-knitter, I suddenly remember the name that goes with that voice.

"Ken?" I ask, my voice a mere gurgle and then I groan again at the resultant pain in my jaw.

"Hey, I told you not to talk," Dalby frowns at me but his voice is gentle. "I haven’t given you a painkiller yet, that’s why your jaw hurts so much."

Painkiller? I thought we ran out of them two weeks ago. I should’ve known they had some stashed away in a hidden corner of the now mostly defunct sickbay. With a sigh, I close my eyes, letting the Maquis complete his job.

Someone presses a hypospray against my neck and my eyes again fly open at the contact, only to realize its Joe Carey, who shrugs apologetically and softly injects the painkiller into my bloodstream.

It’s almost funny seeing all these one-time engineers acting as medics in these decadent times.

As always, Carey finishes his job and quietly disappears somewhere in the background, leaving me alone with Dalby.

As Dalby finishes knitting my ribs together, I feel the discomfort in my chest slowly abate. My head feels clearer so I decide to test my strength by trying to move my limbs, only to cry out as a sudden sharp pain erupts into my lower body. My whole body twists in a spasm as the pain travels up my legs like molten lava, stirring along my bruised thighs, moving around my beaten backside, finally to settle in that vulnerable spot between my sore ass-cheeks.

My whole lower body, my legs, my ass, is on fire. As my eyes fill with unbidden moisture, I suddenly remember exactly what happened to me.

Some of the mortification must have shown on my face, because Dalby instantly presses another hypo against my neck and somehow the pain shrinks, ebbing into a dull ache, pulsating inside my battered bones.

"Tom, its okay," he speaks softly, trying to reassure me, his hand touching my shoulder comfortingly. "It’s over now, you’re alright."

Only I don’t want to be comforted. I don’t want to hear any soothing words of how things are all right and that no one is going to hurt me anymore. Been there, done that, many time over. No words, no amount of verbal comfort, can make life in this hellhole okay for me. It’s not okay. It’s never going to be okay.

I turn my head and look at him. "Where’s Baytart?" I ask, my voice forced to sound firm with a considerable effort, my steel veneer barely in place.

Dalby frowns as if suddenly a disturbing revelation has been made to him; his eyes glitter with an emotion I don’t have the strength to face right now. "He’s fine," He looks at me wearily. "They didn’t touch him after all. They didn’t wanna touch him and you knew that, didn’t you?"

I swallow heavily. "No, I didn’t. How could I have known?"

"Because it always happens like this," His volume rises exponentially. "I don’t know why you always have to pick a fight with those fucking bastards, Tom. You’re not everyone’s goddamned savior."

"Damn you, Ken," I snarl at him, suddenly pissed off at him that he’s pissed off at me. "They were gonna hurt him. What did you expect me to do? Stand back and fucking watch?"

Dalby grits his teeth, exasperated. "That’s exactly what I’d have wanted you to do. It’s better than getting your jaw and ribs smashed."

But he’s wrong, and he knows it. He knows it as well as I do that the only reason they keep coming after me is because I fight back, because they haven’t been able to break me as yet. And they will never be able to. I’ll never stop fighting, even if they kill me.

Dalby sees something in my eyes and his expression shifts. "Y’know you did some damage too. Yosa had a broken nose and a fractured jaw, Bronowski’s shoulder was pulled out of his socket." He stares at me a second and then says. "I just wish you wouldn’t pick fights on your own. Let whomever they come after deal with them. They come after Baytart," his volume rises. "Let Baytart deal with them."

"But he’s just a kid." I sigh in agitation.

"For gods sake, Tom," Dalby shakes his head at me. "What difference does that make? It’s not like he’s never been raped before."

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. They hit me like a sledgehammer, pummeling into my chest, and my face crumples, as suddenly I am back at the digging site, pressed face down into the dirt by brutish hands, coarse fingers invading me, making it hard for me to breath.

I come up thrashing on the bio-bed, arms flailing, as I turn to my side, attempting to climb off the bed, and am gripped firmly by strong hands.

"I have to go," I moan, trying to wrench myself free, as Dalby’s hands run over my back, soothingly. "Please, let me go," I sob helplessly into the front of his shirt, sagging ungracefully in his arms, as mutinous tears roll down my face, soaking his shirt. "Please, I need to get outta here…"

Dalby shushes me, gently rocking me, telling me that I am safe here, that I am safe for now, and no one is going to come here, at least for now. Long, exhausting minutes tick by like this and as I sluggishly feel my breathing return to normal, I look up to find a troubled expression on his face. I know he realizes what threw me off, the one wretched word that I can feel in my veins but not bear to hear in my ears, not bear to acknowledge verbally.

But it’s not his fault, not his pain. It’s my shortcoming, my failure, and my hell.

"I won’t let them touch you, Tom," he declares. "Not here. They have to go through me first."

And I know he means it. He will fight for me, as he has done many times before. As long as I am in front of his eyes, no one will touch me. Amidst this horde of mercenaries and psychopathic bastards, Kenneth Dalby is someone on my side, one of the good guys.

I look at this man - once an enemy, now a friend - and think of the strange anomalies we come across in the journey of our lives.

Ken Dalby is one such anomaly.

When I first came across him, which was during my brief stint in the Maquis, I thought he was the biggest sonofabitch I had ever seen. He was rude, disdainful, insolent and angry at the whole fucking universe. I thought he was nothing but trouble and since I had enough problems of my own, I figured it would be in my best interests to stay away from him. I didn’t even try to get to know him. All I saw was the surface anger and hatred, and decided he was simply a jerk.

It’s something else that I was perfectly capable of screwing up my life on my own but that’s a whole different story.

Even when I crash-landed Voyager on this planet, even after all the massacre, the blood and the Kazon, I didn’t understand who Ken was. I thought he was another Maquis terrorist, a mere felon, an aggressor. Nothing more.

It wasn’t until he saved me from one of the deranged gangs here, got me out of the cell block where I had been left to die after being beaten half to death, that I realized he was not like them at all. He got beaten up himself, fought his way out of there just for me, saved my ass. I asked him why he did what he did, why he saved my life, and he said that he knew a kindred soul when he saw one.

Torres told me he had lost the girl he had loved to the Cardassians, had seen her get raped and killed in front of his eyes, and that was what had driven him crazy, what had made him join the cause.

When I thanked him for saving me that day, he just shrugged his shoulders as if it was no big deal.

Except it was big deal to me. When the mask finally came off, I realized Ken was just like me, a victim himself. Misunderstood. But once you got to know him, he was a hell of a friend. He’s the only person in here that calls me by my first name, and the only one I like to call by their first name too.

I would have it no other way.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asks me and I nod, still feeling a little numb. "I wish the Captain was still around," he sighs.

It takes me a few seconds to realize that he’s talking about Chakotay. Chakotay was the only captain Dalby knew. He never got to see Janeway. He didn’t set foot on Voyager until they were all gone.

Chakotay.

A small stab of pain goes through me and I take deep breaths to center myself but all I can think of is the nightmare. The same nightmare that, for reasons unknown, has been invading my sleep all too frequently these last few weeks. Memories of a fateful day lost long ago, but still as fresh in my mind as if the events occurred just yesterday, flash back into the reel of my mental cinema and I almost groan in pain.

It’s a pain that transcends physicality. It’s a pain in my heart. In my soul.

I slide off the bio-bed, my feet touching the cool soil of Sickbay. "I need to go to my room, Ken." I don’t meet his eyes as I face the walls and look at the bulkheads and glance up at the ceiling with all the bright lights – all the scrap that we could salvage from the remains of USS Voyager.

This is all that’s left of Voyager. After the Kazon were through with our intrepid class starship, all that was left were heaps of scrap metal and bulkheads and two bio-beds from the sickbay. The Kazon took about everything else that was worth shit.

I try to think how funny it would have been to see the EMH’s expression if we had told him that his sickbay’s floor was now made of hard ground and soft soil and patches of dry grass. But of course, the EMH was disabled one year ago. Somehow I don’t find much funny these days.

"I swear if the Captain were here, he’d deal with all these assholes himself." Dalby is still talking, working himself up, not noticing my discomfort, or perhaps I have gotten better at hiding my grief. "Damn, I wish he were still alive."

My veneer breaks for a third time in the last half-hour and I want to curse myself for my weaknesses, for my inability to control my emotions. But his words remind me of my real failure, remind me of the fact that I am responsible for Chakotay’s death.

"Shit, Tom." Dalby is horrified. "I am sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s not your fault that the Captain died. I know you tried to save his life."

So what difference does that make? I tried and I failed. The trying doesn’t matter if you fail. The trying doesn’t matter if the man you were trying to save dies thinking you were a traitor and a fuck up, if the man that meant so much to you didn’t even want to live if it meant owing his life to you.

The trying doesn’t matter if the man you loved hated you.

"Tom."

I shake my head, still not able to look at him, still not able to speak. I gather my wits together and slowly walk out of the room, wincing and limping in pain.

The trying doesn’t matter. What matters is that I failed. I fucked up.

I let him fall to his death.

 

 

I am on light duty today. I don’t know how but Torres was actually able to pull some strings with Seska’s cronies and she let me work inside the welding camp, inside the shade. They got into a big fight right outside the encampment, spitting and snarling at one another for what seemed like hours, fighting like wild animals.

The fiery Klingon warrior against the fake Bajoran bitch.

You can guess who’d have won this round.

Dalby doesn’t have much say against Seska. She treats all males as her own private band of slaves, even the ones who side with her. Torres, being a female, and hotheaded enough to match her evenly in all areas, is the only one who can bitch-slap her effectively.

I should feel happy that the good guys won this round of verbal skirmishes, but happiness is an emotion that evades me more often than not.

I haven’t seen Dalby today but I know he’s somewhere around, keeping an eye on me. I saw Torres a few times, stomping off in the distance, rigid with anger. Though for some reason she didn’t come near me at all, didn’t ask me anything, didn’t even look at me, all the while I was sitting inside the shade welding at my pet project.

I suspect she might be pissed at me for some reason. Probably the same reason I think Dalby is ticked off. They think I have this perverse wish to deliberately get myself into situations where I end up getting hurt. Crazy, huh? They think I have masochistic tendencies that have gotten out of control in this base environment.

For two people who understand me better than anyone else here, sometimes they don’t seem to understand me at all.

How can I explain to them that this whole situation is my fault to begin with? All these deaths and destruction and pain - theirs, mine, and everyone else’s - it’s all blood on my culpable hands. How can I tell them that I have no way to redeem myself other than to take a little of their pain any chance I can?

After all, I am responsible for taking away their lives, their peace and their happiness, aren’t I?

Happiness is an emotion I haven’t experienced in twelve long months.

 

 

I blink my eyes trying to clear the cloud of dust enveloping me from all sides, obstructing my vision, settling in my mouth and my nostrils, hindering the flow of oxygen that makes breathing possible for me.

It’s so dark. So quiet. Just like the dead.

The only sound I hear is the reckless thud of my heart beating loudly in my ears. It’s an ominous sound, foreboding, hopeless, suggestive of impending doom.

Or perhaps a reminder of destruction already befallen.

Another explosion on the surface shakes the entire balustrade and suddenly I realize the dust is clearing. I clutch the rails on both sides and take two fearful steps down, squeezing my eyes to stop the unsought irritation weeping down onto my face, and quickly open them again, wanting to see what’s ahead of me, wanting to know what’s below.

Suddenly it becomes visible: the twisted, contorted edges of the metal steps and the metal junctures holding the platform that were torn away by the force of the explosion on the surface, torn away right in front of my eyes.

The platform that is no longer there.

"Oh God, no," I hear myself moan, as I strain to look down the tunnel, my heart pounding deafeningly, as if it would tear out of my squeezing chest.

And then I see him. His twisted, broken body lying on the sharp, jagged rocks below. His one arm splayed out over his head, as if he had been trying to reach out to something.

As if he had been trying to reach out to me.

I feel myself go rigid and cold with realization. I hear myself moan and slide down on the metal floor, shaking with grief.

"Chakotay."

I cry out, my voice hoarse with pain as hot tears slip down my cheeks, stubborn in their pursuit.

 

 

"Paris."

Startled, I jolt up on my bed, my chest heaving with exertion, my heart contracting with waves of guilt and fear.

A hand lands on my shoulder and I spring, my defense mechanism slipping into action, lashing out with both hands at the intruder who has slipped into my cubicle in the black night.

"Paris." I hear a painful grunt in the silence of my room, as my fist lands on a body that suddenly didn’t seem to be poised for attack.

I freeze as my baffled brain belatedly realizes it‘s not an attacker.

"Dammit, its me. Torres."

I scramble for the light switch and turn it on. She is standing on the foot of my bed, one arm clutching the side of her ribs where my blow landed.

"Shit, I am sorry," I stammer, suddenly feeling contrite. "Did I hurt you badly?"

"No, its okay," she wheezes and looks closely at me, straightening up.

"You startled me," I try to explain. "What are you doing here so late at night?"

She looks at me warily for a few seconds, as if assessing my frame of mind and my mood, and then shrugs slightly. "I was just passing by and I thought I heard you…" A tentative pause. "…groaning."

My face flushes hot as I suddenly remember the nightmare. I feel a blush creep up my neck and I know she can see it on my face. I avert my eyes from her dark ones.

"I…I just wanted to make sure you were okay," she mumbles, clearly embarrassed herself.

I take a deep breath and try to force a grin on my face, trying to act nonchalant. "Well, the first thing you do in such situations is to turn on the lights, Torres."

My heartbeat suddenly picks up speed when her eyes narrow at my words and I notice a strange expression flicker through her features. I stare at her, expecting her to say something but she turns around, walking to the water-cooler, and picks up a glass, filling it with the not-so-cool water.

With her back to me, I raise my hand to my face and flinch as my fingers encounter the familiar wetness on my cheeks. Shit. I had been crying in my sleep and now she has seen the evidence. I hastily try to rub my face clean before she can see me. She turns around and pauses, appraising me for a second and then brings the water to me. I lower my eyes, not willing to meet her gaze, my teeth working on my lower lip nervously.

"Here," she offers me the glass, sitting on the edge of my bed. "Drink this."

I take the glass from her and try the nonchalance routine again. "I was having this wild nightmare." I shake my head, a plastic smile on my quivering lips. "Dunno where it came from." I take a large gulp of water, willing my heart to calm.

"You still blame yourself, don’t you?"

Her question catches me by surprise and I freeze, my eyes flying up to finally meet her probing brown gaze. I stare at her for exactly three heartbeats and then speak. "Blame myself for what?"

"Blame yourself for Chakotay’s death."

I realize my mouth has dropped open, as I stare at her in shock. I am astonished that she is talking about this after all this time. She has never, not once over the past twelve months, ever mentioned Chakotay to me. We talk about many things, Torres and I. We talk about the situation we are in, about the scraps of Voyager that we have to gather to create rudimentary structures for the inhabitants on this planet, about the lack of hope we constantly find ourselves in. We talk about the violence we saw and continue to experience around here, about the Kazon, the Maquis, the Fleeters, and so many other things.

But she has never, ever talked about her captain to me before. She has never mentioned the incident on the Ocampan stairs. She has never tried to rub it in my face the way some of the other Maquis do. I can’t imagine why she would start now. I wonder if this is only the extension of the cold shoulder that I received from her the whole day yesterday.

"What are you talking about?" I can’t help but sound defensive, skeptical, and hate myself for it. The last thing I want to do is further alienate her from me.

"I heard you cry out his name, Paris," she sounds suddenly remorseful. "I’ve heard from others that this isn’t the first time." Her brow is wrinkled with concern. "Do you get nightmares about what happened on Ocampa?"

I let myself breathe slowly, the feeling of relief suddenly descending on me. She’s not here to rub it in my face. She is concerned about me. But I still can’t bring myself to let down my guard too fast. I slide an impassive expression on my face and shrug.

"Well, what if I do?"

She frowns slightly. "Well, you shouldn’t ‘cause it WASN’T your fault."

My short-lived peace of mind quickly evaporates into thin air. What’s the matter with all these people? I feel exasperated. A day before Dalby was trying to calm me down about the same thing, and now its Torres sitting down at the edge of my bed trying to reassure me that I am not to blame for what happened on Ocampa?

"You’re wrong, Torres. It IS my fault." I grit my teeth, suddenly feeling my eyes brim with traitorous tears and blink my eyes stubbornly, willing myself to stay in control. "I let him fall."

She snorts out a short exaggerated laugh, a small puff of air exhaled through her nostrils. "It was a fucking accident. You didn’t push him off the stairs, did you?"

"I was too slow," I frown, feeling my tightly wound coil of control springing out of my hold. She’s not supposed to be sitting here. She shouldn’t talk to me about Chakotay. There was a reason why she didn’t all this time and it was probably for the best. But now it’s getting all spiraled out of control, it’s not right, she can’t do this. But I can’t stop myself, can’t get a grip on my emotions, on my mouth, on the staccato beat of my thudding heart. I open my mouth and my pain comes out in an embarrassing near-wail. "I should’ve tried harder."

"Yes you should have," she snarls and I halt at her words, thinking this is crunch time, that I was right and she is really here to rub salt into my wounds, to make me roll on the hot, burning coals of my guilt. Instead she lowers her volume and her gaze softens a bit. "But it wasn’t in your control. You tried, he slipped and fell and died. It’s over. You can’t relive that nightmare for the rest of your life, Paris."

I feel torn between feeling guilty that I thought so low of her, and feeling mad that she has the audacity to come here and tell me what I can and not dream about.

"It is all my fault, I shouldn’t have listened to his rants, I should’ve just scooped down and picked him up." I hear myself groan. "If I had done that, he would still be alive and none of this shit would’ve happened."

She throws her arms out in frustration. "Nothing can get through to your thick skull, can it?" She shakes her head and regards me with a strange glint in her eyes. "As far as all-out pig-headedness is concerned, you are just like Chakotay."

I sigh and lean back on the wall, pulling my knees up against my chest. "What is that supposed to mean?"

She takes a deep breath as if readying herself to divulge a deep, long hidden secret. "When you were caught on that mission by Starfleet and got thrown in prison," she starts cautiously. "Chakotay blamed himself for it."

For a second or two, I have this urge to laugh in her face, so over the top her words sound to me. But her gaze is intense and her face serious. "What are you talking about?" I protest. "He HATED me."

She looks at me as if I have gone mad, her eyes go wide and an almost comical incredulity creeps up on her face. "He didn’t HATE you, Paris, he CARED for you, too fucking much. Y’know, scoop down and pick him up sounded just about right." She has a strange twist on her lips - a small, sad, rueful smile. "Don’t know what happened there that day but you SHOULD have stayed in your fucking character and riled him up to no end. That’s what he liked most about you."

But he DIDN’T like anything about me.

"You’re crazy." I shake my head at her, thinking she has lost her mind, the lump in my throat making it hard to get the words out. "He thought I was a traitor." My heart is thudding again, my mouth dry. Please stop right here, I want to scream, I don’t want to hear anymore. "He CALLED me a traitor. He thought I sold him out."

"Paris, I don’t know what he said to you on Ocampa," she continues, heedless of the desperation on my face. "But I know this. When the Starfleet caught you, he went absolutely crazy. He wouldn’t stop looking for you; he was ready to go after you, to try any desperate stunt to get you out of the clutches of Starfleet, to get you out of prison. It was just not possible; you had been taken so fast, we had had no warnings.

"When it became clear that there was nothing we could do, he barricaded himself in his cabin for two days. He wouldn’t come out, he wouldn’t talk to anyone, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t do anything.

"When he finally came out, he was a changed man. We could tell he was wracked with guilt, he blamed himself for not being alert enough, for letting you fall into the trap, for letting you get caught. He was devastated."

My heart is no longer pounding in my chest. In fact, it seems to have stopped beating altogether, for there is a silence inside me that smothers all senses - a choking, stifling stillness that fills me, suffocating me. Her voice sounds distant, as if scattered over jagged alien terrain, booming through the lonely frigid mountains and valleys of my heart.

She can’t be telling the truth, I hear a voice inside me saying, it can’t be true. It’s a lie, a game - a vengeful, spiteful, cruel game.

Yet her gaze is eager, her dark eyes luminous, her face animated with conviction, as she digs into her side pocket and takes out a small shiny object. My swimming gaze falls over the object as she holds it in front of me. It’s a seashell, silvery-white in color, bright, glistening, and beautiful.

With rising horror I notice the small hole, at the top of the flat surface of the shell, where someone had once threaded a thin cord to wear the ornament around his neck.

"It was Chakotay’s." She presses it into my hand, not aware of the turmoil in my mind, and in my heart. "This was one of the few things I could get out of his cabin before we beamed to Voyager," Her voice echoes through the void in my head. "I had hidden it a year ago and only today remembered where it was. I dug it out and realized there was only one person who could make use of it, and that’s you."

It’s hot in my quivering palm and with a gasp I drop it onto the bed. "No," I shake my head; my ears suddenly buzzing as I feel my heart kick start its ragged beat again. "I can’t take it, it belonged to him, he wouldn’t want me to have it, it won’t be-"

"You’re wrong, Paris." she frowns, cutting me off in the middle of my protest. "You are exactly the person he would have wanted to give this to," She picks up the shell and presses it back in my palm, insistently. "Chakotay told me it was his good luck shell and I can’t think of anyone who needs a better luck in here, than you do."

 

 

The setting sunrays fall over my outstretched knees, my upper body partially hidden in the shade, as I sit with my back pressed to the cool wall. A half-empty bowl of gruel - something they insist is food - sits on the ground beside me.

My fingers run over the sleek surface of the seashell, one callused thumb deliberately tracing the smooth spirally bend at the base inlaid with soft coiled ridges - which appear to once have been festooned with purple and silver dyes and strokes of shiny paint but are now faded with time. And sand.

Yes, there’s lots of cool, coarse sand, the remnants of which are now packed inside the shell. Sand under which Torres had buried this shell a year ago.

She said she did it so that Seska wouldn’t get her hands on it. Seska had had this thing for Chakotay, something no one could miss back in the Maquis, including me, and would’ve blown her top if she knew Torres had something personal of Chakotay’s and hadn’t given it to her. The Bajoran quite adamantly - because of a past romance with the captain, short-lived as it was - considers herself the rightful successor to him even though he had hated her guts. He had hated her guts and wouldn’t have wanted her to have this shell according to Torres.

For some strange reason the half-Klingon is positive that he would’ve wanted ME to have this instead. How absolutely, ridiculously fucked up is that?

She thinks that telling me about Chakotay, about how he had felt about me, will make me feel better. He cared about me, she said. My getting captured devastated him, she thought. He felt guilty, she insisted. He blamed himself, he was never the same when I was caught, he was a changed man, he never forgave himself, and the list goes on.

It was like opening a can of worms. Once she started talking, she couldn’t stop. It was as if she had been bursting with the need to talk about her mentor with someone, anyone. As if she had been dying to tell me about everything that Chakotay had done and said and spoken and implied while I was spending leisure time as a guest of Starfleet in Auckland.

I wanted to ask her why she didn’t dig the shell out all these months, but she didn’t need to be asked anything. Somehow she knew all my unasked questions and answered them anyway with a zest I had never seen in her before. She said she had lost track of the site because we had uprooted the living quarters over it several months ago and she couldn’t find it no matter how hard she tried. And today, of all days, miraculously, she saw a mark that she herself had left there twelve months ago.

Today of all days.

It was his good luck shell, she said. Chakotay always used to wear this ornament around his neck, she related, it was something very precious to him, and she has no idea why he wasn’t wearing it the day we went down to Ocampa twelve months ago. I know he wasn’t wearing it in the Ocampan tunnel that day on the stairs - the day I failed him - but I have seen it in each and every dream of mine since then. Even when I didn’t know he used to wear it, even when I didn’t know what it was, I still saw the thing in the dreams.

Why? How did my subconscious mind know? What the hell does all this mean?

She even broke down and cried at one point, something I had never thought I’d see in my lifetime. My fiery, strong, Klingon friend – crying for her captain, her friend, her brother.

The coldness has descended even deeper inside me.

How can I explain to her that my knowing how Chakotay had actually felt about me cannot possibly make me feel better?

Can’t she tell it makes everything even worse, more deplorable, more pitiful, for me?

At least until yesterday I used to think that one day I would probably be able to convince myself that the man I failed was someone who hated my guts, someone who felt it beneath himself to be saved by a lowlife like me.

Yes, I could think that he was too good, too noble, too dignified, to be tainted by my touch and thus chose to rather die than be in my debt of life.

Except now even that safety net has been pulled out from under me. He liked me, she says. He cared, she insists.

I failed the man I loved, the man who cared for me too. How can I ever forgive myself for that? I let him fall to his death. Why didn’t I try harder? What was I afraid of? He was in pain, he was scared, he wanted to live, and yet I let him fall. Why didn’t I die with him?

Tonight is the one-year anniversary of my failing Chakotay. It’s been a year, one whole year, since I let him die. How will I ever face my demons?

Good luck shell, is it? I close my fingers around it and feel its coolness seeping into my palm, as if it’s a balm and it intends to soothe the fire inside my veins. The fire that burns like ice - frigid, cruel and relentless.

I close my eyes and wish that I didn’t have to feel the pain anymore.

 

 

"Voyager, can you get a lock on us now?"

The words slide out of my mouth without a hitch and then I blink, suddenly confused as to where I am. The air is hot around me, the day blazing, humid and sultry. The earth below me is dry and parched, arid and desolate.

It’s a place that is eerily familiar.

"Affirmative, but we are getting only five signals."

I almost jump at the voice that comes out of my combadge. I look down, baffled, at the uniform I wear, a red and black Starfleet observer’s uniform, and am suddenly aware of others’ presence beside me. Both my arms are around people on my sides and I turn my head left and right to find myself looking at the Talaxian Neelix, the Ocampa Kes, and Torres, and Harry. The last two are clad in Ocampan attire and suddenly I realize this is a dream.

A new variation of the same dream.

I find myself slipping into the role as if doing a stage play, the words tumbling out of my mouth with ease, words that have been etched into my brain, repeated many times in my mind over the past one year. Though this is the first time I am dreaming about actually being on the surface, the first time I am seeing anyone other than Chakotay. All the previous versions were about the insides of the tunnel.

But it’s still a dream, of course. Just another crazy, demented image dreamt up by my delirious mind.

"The others…" I start, speaking into the combadge again, and suddenly stop as my eyes fly up to watch an explosive beam jolt down from the sky to hit the surface and I hear myself scream at everyone. "GET DOWN!"

We fall down to the ground in unison and brace ourselves as the earth shakes, clouds of dust rising up to add to the confusion.

My eyes move to rest on the hole, the opening to the tunnel, in the ground a few feet from me, dust blustering up from it, and sense a feeling of déjà vu’ go through me.

My right hand rises to tap the combadge once more and I hear myself speak again. "Paris to Janeway!" My voice has the same note of apprehension as it had one year ago - and just as was the case last time, there is no answer to my hails. "Chakotay. Tuvok," I hear my voice shake. "Do you read?"

No answer as expected. I glance towards the other four; coming to the same conclusion I did the last time. "Voyager, prepare to transport everyone in this group but me," I say into the combadge, as I get up.

"Aye sir," comes the reply.

"You’re not thinking of going back there."

It’s Neelix, looking at me incredulously, and I almost smile at his timing. Strange things recurrent dreams are, impeccable and indefectible in their exactness. Instead I just stare at him, realizing it doesn’t matter what I think. My role in this dream is predetermined and won’t change the outcome no matter what I do. As always. "Well, a fool needs company," Neelix squares his shoulders and turns to Kes. "Take care of yourself, dearest. I’ll see you soon."

I run to Neelix and take his combadge off his shirt, handing it to Harry instead. "Voyager, make that three to beam up. Lock on to the other combadge and energize."

We watch them shimmer into the transporter beam and turn towards the tunnel again. I follow the Talaxian as he climbs down the hole, into the hot, dusty tunnel. The cave shakes with each explosion on the surface and we find our descent become difficult with every passing second. Yet it’s a dream - a nightmare - and it has to be relived, as the curse it is to me, over and over again.

We pass the energy barrier and find ourselves on the staircase again. The visibility here is even worse as dust fills the cave with every shiver on the surface, but we relent, moving down the stairs, aware of the lack of time on our side.

"Here they are," Neelix calls out and then I spot them too: Captain Janeway sitting beside the black Vulcan Tuvok who seems injured.

And Chakotay, laying on the platform a flight below them, his one leg twisted to one side at a painful angle.

"Neelix, help me with Tuvok," Janeway orders, and the Talaxian moves to the task, helping the Vulcan up on his feet with her help and they move quickly, climbing the stairs up to the mouth of the tunnel.

"I’ll get Chakotay," I hear myself repeat, but they are gone already, vanished into the tangle of my delirious mind.

It’s a dream, just a dream, yet my heart is thudding again - frenzied in my chest.

I look at him, curled to one side, his large, clammy hands clutching the railing in a painful grip.

"Get out of here, Paris, before the whole thing comes down."

The same words, the same angry tone, the same sad, hurt look in his ebony eyes. Why are you so angry, Chakotay? I want to ask him. Please don’t think that I betrayed you because I didn’t, I want to scream.

Rile him up, I hear Torres say in my mind. Rile him up to no end, she persists.

I find myself moving on the shaking floor towards the flight that leads down to the platform he’s lying on. "I intend to," Strange, unfamiliar words roll out off my tongue. "As soon as I get YOU up." I grab the shivering rails with both hands as my heart starts pounding inside my chest. A surreal, peculiar feeling sinks down on me. Something is wrong.

"You get on those stairs, they’ll collapse," he pants, his face twisted in pain that is too familiar to me. "We’ll both die."

Rile him up; rile him up good, she screams in the chaos of my confused mind.

I find myself moving down the flight, my hands gripping the rails furiously. "Yeah, but on the other hand," I take deliberate steps that feel almost habitual and yet strangely unacquainted at the same time. "If I save your butt, then your life belongs to me."

What the hell am I doing? I am supposed to be just playing a part in this dream. So why is my traitorous mouth going off like this?

An explosion rocks the surface and the whole staircase jolts, making me fall to one side and I watch with growing panic as his position shifts as well, the blast jerking him to a side. But with characteristic steel determination, he holds on to the railing.

Rile him up, she cries, stay in character for Kahless’ sake.

"Isn’t that some kind of Indian custom?" my mouth speaks for me as I grab the rails to steady myself again.

"Wrong tribe." he wheezes through teeth clenched in pain, his brow wrinkling at the discomfort - or perhaps at my strange behavior. Stay in character, is it?

"I don’t believe you," I find myself smirking at him and my heart curls up inside my chest at my audacity. He’s in pain, he’s hurting and you’re smiling? I hear my brain screaming at me. Yet my eyes widen as my legs lumber down the shaking stairs and reach his side in three quick strides.

Scoop down dammit, scoop fucking down and fucking pick him up, Torres screams. Her voice is hoarse with yelling at me and my head is hurting at all the noise. But I have to listen to her, yes I have to listen to her, otherwise she’ll probably break my neck when I wake up, since this is obviously a dream on fucking steroids.

I watch, flabbergasted, as my upper body bends down and my left hand shoots out to move behind his right shoulder. My fingers curl around his shoulder blade, my wrist and thumb curving to grab the meaty part of his shoulder.

And suddenly it hits me.

His smell. His heady, earthy scent, sinking into my senses, the feel of his body shifting under my hand, as slight tremors jolt through his strong, wide frame.

Rile him up, Torres screams inside my head, and I feel like screaming back at her to shut the fuck up. But the words that come out of my mouth are directed at him instead, and are strangely much more peaceful than I feel inside.

"I don’t believe you."

There’s an alien smirk on my face, a cocky, insolent amusement playing in my eyes, which I am sure he can see. It’s wrong, my brain screams, you’re gonna lose him again if you keep this up, he hates you, he hates this attitude, he’s gonna fucking die. But I am not listening to my brain anymore. I am not listening to anyone, not to myself, or to Torres either. I am playing a bizarre role in a twisted, strange dream on a freaking mind trip.

"You’d rather die than let me be the one to rescue you?" I smirk at him, riling him up.

Yes, I am riling him real good.

His eyes meet mine in confusion. Yes, even he knows the role we’re both supposed to play in this dream and he’s wondering what the hell’s gone wrong with me.

But I watch, puzzled, as he shakes his head in a strange surrender.

"Fine, be a fool."

I freeze as he throws his left arm around my neck, my heart suddenly racing as his body comes in direct contact with mine, his scent almost completely consuming me.

"If I have to die, at least I’ll have the pleasure of watching you go with me," he snarls in between clenched teeth.

My throat is suddenly too tight to let any more words out. I take a deep breath, his scent filling my nostrils, and with our arms secure around each other, I pull back to straighten up. I pause a moment to steady my hold around him, and then turn around, keeping my left arm around his bicep and grab the metal rail with my right one. He curls his left arm around my neck, his right one holding the rail to steady himself, as I help him move up the stairs, keeping his broken leg in consideration.

Rile him up, rile him up dammit, Torres is still screaming in my head, don’t go out of character now, Paris.

His body is flat against mine, his muscular chest pressed against my back, the feel of him making it harder for me to think. But my mouth is still mouthing off.

"Isn’t there some Indian trick, where you can turn yourself into a bird and fly us out of here?"

Fucking genius, Tom, my brain grumbles at me, he’s going to let go now, he hates you, he fucking hates you, you moron.

But as we move up the flight, I hear his soft grunt against my neck.

"You’re too heavy," he says, his hold tightening against my chest.

We climb off the flight and just as soon as we do that, an explosion rocks the surface, shaking the entire staircase violently. I watch, frozen with a familiar terror, as the platform we were on just a moment ago, tears off the flight and falls down into the dark, rocky tunnel.

The platform that fell down a year ago, and took Chakotay with him.

The same platform that always fell down in all my previous dreams.

What the hell is going on?

"What’s the matter, Paris?" he huffs in my ear, taking me out of my trance. "A little explosion shook you up?"

His tone is sarcastic, taunting.

My heart is thudding up a storm inside my chest, my brain confused to no end, but the taunting is MY job, my dear captain.

"Not in your life, Chakotay," I smirk at him, gripping his arm tightly and increasing my speed as I move up the stairs.

He swears under his breath, his fingers digging into my shoulder almost painfully, as we climb up one flight after another, moving up the stairs with quiet urgency.

"Fuck you, Paris," he growls against my neck, his breath hot and sweltering against my skin.

"Anytime, Chak," I smirk as my mouth mouths off again.

See, Torres? I am riling him up. Bet, you wouldn’t have to break my neck now, would ya?

He’s strangely silent after that exchange, as we cover the rest of the distance with quiet precision, the explosions on the surface only slightly slowing us down. Strange dream it is. Going on and on like a fucking stuck record, unending like a long winding road leading into oblivion. I should be waking up pretty soon. I wonder how long my crazed brain will play havoc with my sanity?

As we reach the mouth of the tunnel, I climb up first and then bend down to help him up, my heart suddenly beating faster in sympathy for his bad leg. He’s in pain and here I am hurrying him around, dragging him up the shaking stairs. But he’s strong and resilient and I didn’t hear him complain even once.

And besides it’s nothing but a bizarre dream, right?

I find myself tapping onto my combadge, playing a part of the stage play that was never planned, and ordering a beam out for two. A moment later, we find ourselves in Voyager’s sickbay, my fingers still around his left bicep, and I blink in confusion as the EMH comes hurrying over to our side.

"Help me get him up on the bio-bed," the holodoc orders, an impatient yet familiar frown on his face.

I stare at him, suddenly feeling more flabbergasted than I have ever been in my life. What the HELL is going on here?

"Mr. Paris, didn’t you hear what I said?" the EMH scowls at me. "Help me get him UP on the BIO-BED."

The impatient sigh from Chakotay shakes me out of my stupor and I stand up, helping the EMH tug the leather-clad Maquis up and onto a bed. As the doctor busies himself with fixing Chakotay’s leg, I let my gaze move around the sickbay. The same familiar bulkheads around me, the same ceiling above me, and the same wonderful bright lights shine overhead. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and then open them, looking down, waiting for the soft ground to appear and the dry grass to spruce up. But its all nothing but regulation Starfleet duraplex floors.

Wake up, I tell myself, wake up now. It’s a dream, a crazy, deranged, psychotic dream. Wake me up please, Torres, I silently plea.

But Torres is sitting in the sickbay right here with me. Kes, the Ocampa, is running a small instrument over her and Harry is sitting on a bio-bed, apparently looking just fine.

The sickbay doors slide open and my eyes widen as Captain Janeway walks inside, looking around at everyone. She walks to Harry first, as he straightens up and slides off his bio-bed, and asks him how he is. Then she goes to Chakotay and the doctor tells her the fracture is almost repaired. She acknowledges Torres and Kes with a nod and then turns to me.

"How’re you, Mr. Paris?" her gaze is soft, her voice concerned.

My ears buzz with the commotion inside me as I force a smile on my face and nod at her. "I am fine, ma’am." My throat tightens as memories of the last time I beamed up on Voyager wash over me. I had failed Chakotay and my meeting with Janeway had occurred on the bridge.

Wake up, wake up, fucking wake up, I scream inside my head.

"Bridge to Janeway." A voice comes over the comchannel.

"Go ahead," she replies.

"Captain, two Kazon ships are approaching the array."

"Set a course." She moves towards the door. "I am on my way."

My eyes follow her out of the sickbay, my confusion blinding.

"We’ve got to get back to our ship."

My head snaps back to look at Chakotay, who’s sliding off the bio-bed, his leg apparently healed. He’s motioning towards Torres, who follows his example, climbing off the bed she was lying on.

"I strongly advise you to rest." I hear the EMH complain somewhere in the background but I can’t hear anything else he says. My feet march me out of the sickbay, following the man I just brought back from the Ocampan stairs, in a convoluted version of my strange unending dream.

Torres and Chakotay are walking ahead of me briskly, headed towards the turbolift, as I try to keep up with them, confused as hell as to what is going on in my head. I walk after them, my fingers curling and uncurling in frustration, and with a restless sigh, I shove my hands inside my pockets.

And freeze.

There’s something inside my right pocket, something I hadn’t expected to find in there at all. I abruptly halt in my stride, wrap my fingers around the object, and slowly pull it out.

It’s the shell.

A shiver goes through me as I feel my knees buckle with an overwhelming weakness and surely I would have fallen if it weren’t for the bulkhead on my side that I grip with my left hand’s shaking fingers. My head snaps up to catch Chakotay’s retreating bulk disappearing inside the turbolift’s closing door, Torres on his side, and a strange, alien moan escapes my throat.

"Tom, are you alright?"

It’s Harry on my side, looking at me with worried eyes.

"But how could this be?" I am talking to myself, not able to pay attention to Harry’s concern, as I press my back to the wall, my throat convulsing. "This was supposed to be with him, dammit, it was part of the dream."

"What dream?" Harry asks, exasperated. "What’s wrong, Tom?"

I close my hand tightly around the shell and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, trying to calm my racing heart.

And suddenly it’s clear to me.

Chakotay wasn’t wearing this shell around his neck when I went to get him up the stairs a little while ago. I didn’t see the shell with him. I didn’t see it because it wasn’t WITH him.

Just like he wasn’t wearing this shell around his neck a year ago, the day I failed him, because it wasn’t with him then either.

Except there’s only one difference this time.

This time I didn’t fail him.

This time I didn’t let him fall.

 

 

Voyager’s bridge is on fire.

At least that’s what it smells like.

There’s too much smoke, too many exploding consoles, and a deafening commotion of conduits spitting electric sparks, as crewmembers fall left and right with every shot the Kazon take at us. The scenes unfolding around me are way too reminiscent of the events that took place twelve months ago for my liking.

I take a deep breath and look down at the chronometer for the umpteenth time.

No, not events that took place twelve months ago. Events that took place… when? In the future? In a dreamt up past? In another lifetime?

Even if my still-confused brain keeps telling me that those were events that took place a year ago, the chronometer in front of me tells a different story. The time, it says, is 1734 hours, and the date April 28, 2371.

But shouldn’t that be 2372?

"Voyager to Janeway."

I hear Harry hail the captain behind me and wet my suddenly dry lips.

If it’s 2372 now, then what the heck is Harry doing here? He died a year ago too. And so did most of the bridge crew. If its 2372, then what am I doing here? Why am I sitting at Voyager’s helm? What am I doing, guiding and flying the graceful sleek ship in the midst of enemy fire, helping tactical to fight back the Kazon, inventing evasive maneuvers right on the spur of the moment - not caring whether they’d ever be approved by Starfleet?

And besides, I can still feel the darn seashell inside my trousers right pocket.

"Go ahead," Janeway responds from the array and I flinch in my seat.

Oh but this is too reminiscent, too familiar, too fucking out of this world. Like last time, Janeway has again left me in charge of the bridge and gone down to the array with Tuvok. And I just know I am going to screw this up again.

I look up at the viewscreen, my heart in my mouth, and then look down at the readings. The Kazon have apparently realized that we won’t be contained by their three tiny, infuriating scout ships and have called for backup.

"We’ve got problems here," Harry reports to the captain, as the huge brown monster whale of a ship comes into view. Its mammoth proportions, its bizarre yet colossal size, makes it look way too imposing, way too intimidating, and I hear my heart hammering inside my chest.

Too fucking reminiscent.

I hear the exchange between the captain and operations at the back of the bridge and can very well remember what this ship did to us the last time. It ripped us apart, completely, relentlessly, without any qualms whatsoever. My palms are sweaty all of a sudden, my mouth dry. There are too many of them and only one of us.

No sooner than the words are heard in my mind, is my attention diverted to the small blip zigzagging across my sensors.

I am wrong.

We’re not alone this time. Chakotay is at the helm of his Maquis cruiser. He’s alive and he’s on his ship and I never got the fucking chance to give him back his shell. My brow wrinkles as I watch the Kazon ship fire on the tiny cruiser and then feel my heart swell as the man at the helm swings the small ship smartly around the hits, rising and dipping with absolute precision, firing back at the shield-less Kazon ships with unerring vehemence.

There are times when only a pilot can tell the precise control and splendor in someone else’s flying. I had seen Chakotay fly during the Maquis and always knew he was a damn fine pilot but the maneuvers I see him pull on the viewscreen right now make me feel proud.

My attention is suddenly redirected to my own controls as Voyager rocks again, the huge Kazon ship turning more of the firepower in our direction, and I take the ship through a series of defensive maneuvers, my heart clenching inside my ribcage at the assault.

I remember what this shit did to us the last time, as I feel my adrenaline-infused body tense with rising terror.

So consumed I am by the task at hand that I nearly jump in my seat when I suddenly hear Chakotay’s voice come through the comchannel.

"Paris," he addresses me, his tone sharp. "My crew is coming over. Tell one of your crackerjack Starfleet transporter chiefs to keep a lock on me. I am gonna try and take some heat off your tail."

Beam over his crew? The Maquis? On Voyager? No, not again, this isn’t right, this was what went wrong the last time, this can’t happen again, my brain screams at me. What the hell is he planning to do?

Yet when I open my mouth, my recently awakened cocky persona does the speaking for me.

"Acknowledged," I hear myself replying. "But don’t think for a second this makes us even, Chakotay. Your life is still mine."

Huh? What the hell’s wrong with me? He’s beaming over the crew to Voyager and apparently going off on some last minute intrepid, kamikaze stunt and all I can do is remind him of the life-debt?

Rile him up, I hear Torres’ shrill voice cry inside my head, stay in character, you idiot.

But as Chakotay whirls his small cruiser between incessant weapons fire, propelled towards his target, zipping around and firing at the scout ships at his tail end, I watch the big Kazon ship turn its full attention on him.

He’s going to blow up, I think to myself, my throat tightening with fear, as my heart sinks low in my stomach – which all of a sudden feels ready to heave and spew all its contents in one ragged breath. He’s going to blow up because I didn’t give him his good luck shell.

"I am holding a lock on him, sir." I hear someone report behind me. "But he’s getting too close."

The shell, he doesn’t have the shell, my brain screams at me, and instinctively, my hand slides inside my pocket, my fingers curling around the smooth curved ridges of the seashell. Granules of coarse sand are damp against my palm, as I feel someone’s presence next to me. I look up to find Torres standing beside me, her eyes riveted to the viewscreen, naked fear etched on her dark, expressive face, and swallow heavily.

Scoop him up, she speaks inside my head, you have to scoop him up.

"I am getting you out of there, Chakotay," I yell into the comline.

"NOT YET," he screams back at me, still advancing towards the Kazon ship, as the whole bridge watches the spectacular view with their breaths held in trepidation.

The scout ships increase their bombardment on us and the whole ship shakes, consoles exploding all around the bridge. As smoke once again fills my nostrils, the horrific thought occurs to me that if we took any more fire we might lose the transporters, and then we won’t be able to beam Chakotay off his ship.

"You’re breaking up," I scream into the channel, watching the small cruiser fly towards the gigantic ship in a bold, straight line, its shields lighting up like Federation Day fireworks under the continued fusillade. "Standby for transport."

"WAIT," he yells, as we all hear explosions in the background on his own bridge.

My fingers clench tightly around the seashell, my stomach in helpless knots, as we watch the cruiser get closer and closer to the giant ship, phaser fire hitting him with a vengeance, until he’s almost onto the Kazon, he’s almost there, he’s about to collide with them. And at that one last nanosecond, when he’s nothing but a burning, flaming, ball of fire, we hear his scream,

"NOW!!!"

And he rams the cruiser into the belly of the Kazon battle ship, and we watch, aghast, as he blows up into smithereens, leaving nothing but shreds of burning debris in his wake.

For a second or two, there is pin drop silence on the bridge, as the only sound I hear is my heart thudding inside my chest, and then I find my voice.

"Transporter room two." My voice sounds strange to me, high-pitched, shaking. "Do you have him?"

There’s a beat when there’s no response to my query and I feel my heart lurch inside me. And then his soft voice comes over the channel.

"They got me," he replies back, an unexpected hint of a smile enriching his deep voice.

I feel myself go limp as a wave of enormous, immeasurable relief cascades down on me.

Everything is a blur after that. I am only aware of the swish of the turbolift doors opening behind me as Chakotay walks down the bridge to come and stand next to me. Everything else is a haze as my fingers automatically move on the console, moving the ship around, doing the work that I am supposed to do.

I am hardly aware as, despite my previous fears, Janeway and Tuvok return back to the bridge unscathed and she opens a channel to exchange pleasantries with the Kazon Maje.

I am barely conscious as she orders me to move the ship away from the array so that Tuvok can fire tri-cobalt charges at the station to blow up our only chance to return to the alpha quadrant.

I don’t even pay attention when Torres charges up to the diminutive woman and demands to know whom she thinks she is to make these decisions for everyone. I only hear Chakotay’s soft yet firm voice as he grabs the half-Klingon’s shoulder and tells her to watch her mouth in front of the ‘captain’. Or something to that effect.

I only feel his presence next to me, behind me, all around me, as his scent fills me and consumes me, until all I can breathe is him - hot, musky, and earthy. I watch with glazed eyes as the torpedoes are fired at the array, one after the other, and our ticket back home is blown into shreds of blazing, burning metal right in front of everyone.

Everything is all right.

Chakotay is alive.

Nothing else matters to me.

I scooped him up to safety this time.

*****


	2. Expiation

**Dark Tunnel 2 - Expiation**

 

 

"Lights, half illumination."

A warm glow spreads across my living room in answer to my command, illuminating my dwellings in a soft pale light. I hear the doors slide shut behind me as I walk towards the viewport, shucking my uniform jacket, watching distant stars and planets streaking by my window at high-warp.

For the first time in the last one-and-half-months, Voyager is finally traversing through a peaceful region of space. No hostile aliens to fight. No hard asteroid fields to pass. No bizarre spatial anomalies to encounter.

No Kazon either.

For the first few weeks they constantly seemed to be on our tails; first one faction, then another, then yet another. Always taking potshots at us or causing trouble with other alien species we dealt with. My heart felt to be perpetually stuck in my throat during that tense period of time. However even they seem to have left us alone at the moment, disappearing somewhere in the shreds of their self-proclaimed region of space. At least for now.

The surprises life throws at us never cease to amaze me.

Lieutenant. I am a Lieutenant on Voyager. The Chief Conn. Officer for this beautiful Intrepid-class starship that I thought lost a year ago.

In another lifetime.

Yet here she is. Alive and breathing. With all her crew - Maquis and Starfleet alike - intact.

I step to my left until my knees touch the front of the small lounge sitting in front of the viewport, conveniently placed at a ninety-degrees angle, and slide down on it, pulling my feet under me so that I still face the window.

As I stare into the blackness of space beyond the viewport, I remember the day Captain Janeway told me she was integrating the two crews. I remember the absolute terror that filled my veins as my insides screamed at the apparent horror of it all. I wanted to warn her about the conflicts, the blood, the murders, the fighting, about the gangs and beatings and rapes and insanity. I wanted to tell her that it could never work because I had seen what happens when you integrate two enemy groups and force them to live together.

But then she told me that Chakotay was going to be the First Officer and, right there and then, it occurred to me that this was the thing that was going to make all the difference this time. He was the key to the puzzle, the answer to all questions, the reason why it was actually going to work this time.

Chakotay.

The revelation slowly dawned that, by saving him at the stairs on Ocampa, I somehow had changed the entire history of the conflict, rewritten the timeline, and eradicated the reality of my nightmare.

Yes, there are problems, friction between the two crews still exists, and no one can deny that. The Maquis are a conflicted people - hot-tempered, emotional and passionate. And being First Officer, and an ex-Fleet and ex-Maquis one at that, Chakotay is the one who has to bear the brunt of it all, from all sides.

The fact that he honored the Starfleet uniform but felt violated by the Federation when it signed its treaty with the Cardassians doesn’t matter to some people. The fact that the same Cardassians slaughtered his father and so many family members, and that was what forced him to resign his commission and join the Maquis cause, doesn’t seem to count. All they see is the Starfleet officer who betrayed the Federation to join the Maquis, and now has switched sides to join Starfleet again.

There was, and still is, antagonism from many people, but I think he’s really doing a hell of a job. The skilled manner with which he handles the Starfleet crew, and disciplines some of the wayward Maquis, has earned him genuine respect among the ranks in a very short time. Maquis weren’t the only ones who had a problem with the merger. I know many of the Fleet crew who hated, and some still do, the idea of taking orders from the felon they had been sent to capture. But they are small in numbers and fast dwindling.

Having B’Elanna promoted to Chief engineer helped matters some, I guess. Yep, she’s B’Elanna now. Even I get to call her by her first name at whatever occasions we have face-to-face encounters. She is undoubtedly the best engineer around and her Maquis to Starfleet transition has surprised even me.

She, like Chakotay, faced problems from the Fleet ranks at first, but her dedication and obvious expertise in the engine room, plus the quick way she’s re-learning the Fleet protocols she herself abandoned on joining the Maquis, is proving to people that she means business. Besides, it helps Chakotay to know that he has one of his own people with him among the senior staff.

Senior staff. Will the wonders life throws my way never cease?

To be a part of the Voyager senior staff, to be the fourth in command in the hierarchy even outranking B’Elanna, sometimes feels too good to be true. I sometimes feel like I am still stuck in an extended version of some crazy dream gone out of control.

It still staggers my mind.

I notice a light blinking on my computer terminal and lean forward to tap on the interface. It’s a message from Harry, who’s on night shift at the moment, asking me to join him for breakfast and, with a smile, I send a quick affirmative reply to his terminal. I lean back on the couch and pull my legs up on the table lying in front.

Harry is a nice guy, a good friend, someone who has accepted me into his circle without any questions about my past. He doesn’t care that I was kicked out of Starfleet or that I was involved in a shuttle crash that killed three people. He doesn’t concern himself that I was part of the Maquis for a while or worry about the fact that before I came to Voyager I was in Federation prison serving time as a Maquis-sympathizer.

None of that matters to him.

He just sees and accepts me as I am right now, as Tom Paris. I’m the guy who saved him from the Ferengi barkeep at DS9 and the guy who flies the ship better than anyone else onboard. I can’t help but give him credit for his openness of mind. There’s maturity behind that green ensign innocence that is hard to rival on this whole ship.

Especially considering that I haven’t been that lucky with the rest of the crew.

The Maquis still think of me as a traitor who led Voyager to them. The Starfleet crew can’t forget the guy at Caldik Prime who lied about the cause of the shuttle crash. There are days when the attitudes I have to endure on this ship get to be a little too much.

Torres thinks I am an asshole and doesn’t talk to me unless it’s a ship-related matter. It shouldn’t surprise me, because I know it took her a long time - several months in fact - to trust me in that other lifetime as well.

I’ve tried looking up Dalby many times but he doesn’t seem to be in a very receptive mood these days either. Everyone says he’s a jerk and an idiot and has a big attitude problem, and I would believe it too if I didn’t know better. I suppose he’s back to square one again. There are times that I have to stop and remind myself that he doesn’t know me, or even himself, the way he did in that other reality.

The frequency of threats that I receive from the anonymous bullies has been steady and continuous. So much so that there are times I have difficulty remembering that I am not on Lovaugim anymore.

The open glares in the turbolift, the whisperings in the messhall, the jibes and biting comments in the corridors, all seem like the incipience of an all out madness, of complete and total mayhem, as was the case on Lovaugim. Where there was no turning back, no escape, no liberation. Just pain and guilt and suffering for the sufferer.

There are times I come across someone I knew from the planet, someone who had been one of the bullies, who had hated me and had used his force or backing to push me and fight me and degrade me, and I feel myself go rigid with terror. My breath catches up in my throat, the oxygen around me suddenly dipping to an all time hazardous level, and I start to forget which is reality and which is dream.

Was there ever a dream or was the dream a reality as well? I ask myself, as confusion and chaos envelop me again, stifling me. And I have to turn around, blindly walking out of wherever I am standing; looking for a place where I can breathe and collect my nerves, not sure whether this is all a part of the dream as well, or whether what I had experienced on Lovaugim was ever real.

But despite the threats and intimidation, no one, and I repeat no Maquis or Starfleet crewmember, has dared touch me as yet. It’s as if even when they talk me down or give me the hard looks, at the back of their minds, they feel a presence - a resistance - holding them back - keeping them in their place.

Chakotay.

Yes, I guess he has kept true to his word. The word that he gave to Captain Janeway, when she made him the First Officer, that he would make sure of my safety on Voyager.

It baffles me that he took the life-debt seriously.

But then, he would, wouldn’t he? He’s the kind of person who’d make sure to honor a promise, who’d remember someone who made a request to him, who’d never forget somebody he owed something to. Isn’t he?

My hand slips inside my trousers pocket and I take the seashell out. I keep it on my person 24 hours a day, seven days a week now, always there to remind me of the realness of this reality.

My forefinger traces the spiral ridges on its surface almost reverently, lovingly. It’s a beautiful shell and, over the past one-and-half-months, I’ve had more time to study it closely. It’s approximately 4-inches wide and 5-inches in length, with a kind of leaf-shaped silvery white exoskeleton. The colors that shimmer on its surface, which I had once suspected to be paints or dyes, are not artificial at all. Doing a little research on seashells in the ship’s database, I found out that the patterns on the shell are natural formations and are part of the shell, rather than a surface ornamentation.

The fact that these beautiful hues of rainbows, engraved on this outer skeleton of what was once part of a sea-faring animal, are a work of nature makes me more intrigued than ever. What do these patterns, these shapes, mean? What significance do they hold to Chakotay?

I know I need to return it to him. If only I’d get a chance. If only he’d talk to me. If only I’d get the courage to return it to him.

It must be done. It’s his good luck shell, his safety net. Myth or superstition or not, I have experienced the powers of it first hand and I know the shell is special in some way.

The shell must be returned to its rightful owner as soon as possible.

It’s just that, for some reason, Chakotay keeps me at an arm’s length. He’s professional and polite on duty but somehow I get the feeling that he doesn’t truly trust me yet. At least, not on a personal level.

It hurts. I want to get to know him. I want to be able to talk to him. There are so many things I want to do with this man, so many things I want to share, but I never seem to find myself in the same room alone with him once we are off-duty. I want him to trust me.

God, why won’t he trust me? Even after Ocampa he can’t bring himself to trust me. I want him to know that I never betrayed him.

I want to tell him that I love him but first I want to be his friend.

I know I have to return the shell.

It’s just that I worry that once I give the shell away, I would have nothing to remind me of the reality of this situation, nothing to ground me, nothing to let me know that I am not still stuck in an endless dream.

The shell is the only thing that assures me that I am awake and that the life I am living on Voyager is indisputably real. That my experiences here are not the result of a wild imagination working its way through a dream from which I can wake up anytime.

The shell is my only connection.

But the shell isn’t mine.

I must return it to him.

 

 

I lean across the smooth, felt-covered surface to rack the balls in the middle of the table, and then straighten back to scan the room, seeing who’s here. The alpha shift broke two hours ago and I expect the bar to fill out pretty soon.

I watch one of the gigolos flirt with Greg Ayala and try not to laugh at the expression on his face. The slowly building crowd is buzzing around me. Maquis, Starfleet, holograms - they’re all here.

It doesn’t matter that Tom Paris is the guy who programmed this particular bar. Chez Sandrine is still popular among all on its opening day.

It’s ironic that even though Voyager has been low on power sources and we’ve had to cut back on the use of everything from replicators to sonic showers to the auxiliary computer core, the holodecks can run independent of all ship systems and for seemingly endless periods of time.

I can’t imagine who designed it this ridiculous way but, as absurd as the situation may be, I find myself thanking them for thinking of the crew’s entertainment in even dire circumstances.

If only photometric projections could keep your belly filled. I don’t think I can take Neelix’ cooking for much longer.

Voyager has spent the last two days chasing after a nebula that we thought might provide us with a suitable power source, but which turned out to be this giant space faring creature. Not only did we, unaware as we were, go inside this huge nimbus life form, but we also managed to get lost in the maze inside and had to torpedo our way out of its belly. Of course, when Captain Janeway realized we had injured the creature, she decided we fix the damage we had inflicted as well. So we went back in and fixed it, and had to depart sans the power source, but seemingly on better terms with the creature.

The Captain has given the Alpha crew the next two days off. Still, if tonight isn’t a night when the crew needs some relaxation, I don’t know what is.

I turn to Ricki, who’s leaning against a pillar and signal her to keep a watch on my table. She smiles back at me demurely and I grin back, and turn around to walk to the bar, shaking head at my seemingly accurate description of even the holographic ex-girlfriend.

I don’t know why I added her to this program. My memories of the real Ricki aren’t exactly fond. She’s a part of a past that was rather bleak and depressing for me. I had just been kicked out of Starfleet and used to spend my whole days and nights cruising the bars and nightclubs in Marseilles, getting drunk, and getting picked up. It’s not a particularly meritorious time in my life. But then, it was also during this time that I came across Sandrine and made some very good friends at this very bar. I’d like to think that since Ricki was a part of this era of my life and this was the place where I first came across her, that’s the reason why I still keep bringing her back in all my holo-programs. Not because of who she was but rather to maintain the authenticity of the environment.

I suppose I’ll let her hang around for a while and see how she does. If she’s as mind-shatteringly pompous and self-indulgent as the real Ricki was, then I’ll delete her.

I reach the bar and call for Sandrine but she’s not there. I turn around, scanning the crowd for her but she doesn’t seem to be anywhere around, and I am just about ready to start worrying about my holographic patron when I hear her voice from somewhere behind the bar.

"Oh, Monsieur Thomas, is that you?"

I walk behind the bar to find her crouched on the floor, barely cradling two crates of synth-beer bottles on elbows, one of which is just teetering on the side - about ready to crash down.

"Need help?" I smile at her expectant look as I kneel down to help ease the two crates off her hands and set them down on the floor.

"Thank you, my Thomas," she smiles gratefully. "You averted a total disaster."

"My pleasure, mon cheri." I bow dramatically. "But I do think I deserve special a treat now." I grin at her. "Any ideas?"

"Always playing games, are you, Monsieur?" She smiles indulgently at me. "How about I mix you your favorite margarita as a symbol of my gratitude?"

"It’s a deal, Sandrine." I grin at her and am about to push myself up on my knees when I hear the wooden doors of the bar swing open, and two sets of voices walk inside, speaking in, what can only be termed as, excited tones.

"...But are you absolutely sure it didn’t get mixed up in your stuff? I mean I got everything else, the only thing missing is that one shell."

I freeze. It’s Chakotay.

"I don’t think it’s in my things, Chakotay." The other voice is B’Elanna’s. "I looked this afternoon after you told me it was missing, but it wasn’t there."

"I’ve been searching for three days now," he says, sounding defeated. "Where could it’ve gone? I thought you’d gotten most of my stuff from my cabin. You got my medicine bundle..."

"Well, the shell wasn’t THERE with your medicine bundle," she says, obviously exasperated. "And besides, I thought you always wore it around your neck for good luck or something. I thought you had it with YOU."

"Not this time." He lowers his volume, a hint of hesitation suddenly coloring his tone. "Do you mind going through your stuff once more for me? I’ll help you look if you want."

"There’s nothing to look at, Chakotay," she says impatiently. "My quarters are practically barren. I got more of YOUR stuff from the Crazy Horse than mine. I even forgot my Ruvarian energy stabilizer set, the one and only of its kind, which I got from..."

"Yes, yes, I know," Chakotay interrupts her. "From a Ktarian trader on Logas III in the middle of a strike we made against a Cardassian post. You’ve been telling me for the past three weeks, B’Elanna."

"Yeah, so?" she huffs. "What I am saying is there’s not much to look at in my quarters."

"Please?" he says softly, an almost playful plea to a close friend. It’s a tone I’ve never heard in his voice before. He’s never had a reason to talk to me like that. I almost have this urge to stand up so that I can see the look on his face, and treasure it.

There’s a little pause and then I hear her sigh as she gives up the token resistance. "Oh, alright. This thing is really important to you."

"Yes it is," he sighs. "You have no idea how much, B’Elanna. It’s... its priceless," He fights to find the right words. "It’s charmed, and it... it watches over me."

"Well, it doesn’t seem to be watching over you lately," B’Elanna drawls. "Otherwise we wouldn’t be stuck in the stupid DELTA quadrant."

I wince and there is silence for a second or two. I imagine him staring a hole between her eyes, and then I hear him take in a deep, ragged breath. "Okay, never mind," he grumbles. "It’s my fault. I don’t know why I talk to juveniles like YOU about anything."

Then I hear him muttering and walking away from the bar and B’Elanna saying something about the dense commander not being able to even take a joke, as she apparently follows him and their voices muffle down in the noise of the bar.

I feel my heart thudding in my chest as I sit back on my haunches and try to digest what I have just heard.

Chakotay is looking for the shell. He’s upset that it’s missing. How could I have not KNOWN that this would happen? Of course he’s upset. That shell is obviously very important to him. Isn’t that what Torres told me? I should’ve returned it to him the day we came back to Voyager, the day I brought him back alive from Ocampa.

"Thomas." Sandrine, who’d been sitting beside me all the while I was eavesdropping on Chakotay and B’Elanna, looks at me concernedly. "What is wrong? What is bothering you?"

I look at the hologram solemnly and then swallow. "Nothing, Sandrine. I just have to come clean about some business." I smile at her and stand up.

Chakotay and B’Elanna are standing beside a table in a corner, still looking to be involved in a heated debate about something. I grab a bottle of synth-beer from the counter and walk around the bar, trying to figure out what to do. I am not sure cornering Chakotay and telling him that I have his shell in a crowded bar would be a wise move.

But then again, he probably won’t beat me up so hard in front of so many people.

The ridiculousness of my thought brings out a chuckle from my throat and then I shake my head. Think, Tom, I berate myself as I walk back to my pool table, my eyes invariably falling back on him. Standing in the corner of the bar. Unaware that his lost shell isn’t lost at all, just displaced.

I doubt he’d actually BEAT me up if I went to him, but he’d be upset. Yes, he’d be very upset. Especially since he seems to hate me so much.

/---He didn’t HATE you, Paris, he CARED for you, too fucking much---/

I hear Torres’ voice repeat her words in my mind and my head jerks up to stare at him. He has his hands on his hips, as he looks down at his half-Klingon friend, his head shaking in disapproval at one of her comments. His body language is a little tense, as if he’s still hurt at her words and she seems to be trying to cheer him up. She playfully snarls at him and with a huff, turns around and pulls out a chair, sitting down at the table. I watch as a reluctant smile breaks on his handsome face and he slowly follows her, pulling out and settling on the chair across from her.

I feel my throat tighten. How many times have I wished to have camaraderie like this with him? How many times have I wanted to sit down at a table and be able to chat with him, talk with him, ask him about the things that he likes, tell him about the things that I do?

/---He CARED for you, too fucking much---/

But he won’t even talk to me anymore. How can you care for someone and then obstinately ignore him like this? Yet, it wasn’t Chakotay who told me that he cared for me, was it? It was Torres who said that, and it was in a different lifetime, a different reality. It was probably a different Chakotay she was talking about. Or perhaps she only said it to make me feel better.

"Hello, Tom. How are you tonight?"

The smooth drawl takes me out of my brooding and with a start I look to my right to find Seska standing next to my table.

"Wh...what?" I feel baffled by her presence. What does she want? This is the first time she has approached me in this reality. All of a sudden I realize that the feeling pressing foremost down on me is one of extreme discomfort and uneasiness, of suddenly being thrown off by her unexpected, and unwelcome, appearance.

"I said how’re you doing tonight?" She smiles fiendishly, her eyes glistening purposefully as she slowly rakes them up and down my body. "Care for a game of pool?"

I feel a shudder go through me at her words and demeanor. " I am fine." I curl my lips in disapproval. "And no, thanks." I turn away from her, grabbing the cue-stick and trying to fix my attention on the stack of balls racked at the side of the table.

"Why not?" The tone of her voice shifts, as I break with the cue ball, and she grips the edge of the pool table. "All I asked for is a friendly game of pool."

"We’re not friends," I snap at her, keeping my eyes on the table, willing her to go away. Just go away, you bitch, I don’t want to have anything to do with you, not anymore, not in this lifetime.

But she’s not willing to walk away just yet.

"What the matter, Paris?" Her voice rises in volume as her tone fills with naked contempt. "The Maquis aren’t good enough for you to play pool with? You don’t socialize with us, do you?" she snarls at me. "You only SPY on us."

I realize the whole bar has suddenly fallen silent, everyone listening to our exchange, and feel my heart thundering inside me. The silence seems almost accusatory, as if everyone agrees with her. And yet it wasn’t me who started this.

"Look," I turn to her, trying to control my voice and to keep it down. "I don’t wanna fight with you. I don’t wanna fight with anyone else either. I’d just like you to leave me alone."

"You’re a traitor," she spits the words at me. "You cheated on us in the Maquis and you led the Federation to us in the Badlands. How many more times will you cheat on us, Paris?"

I clench the cue-stick in my right hand and gritting my teeth, turn towards her. But before I can say anything else, I feel someone’s presence right behind me and stop right in my tracks.

"Is there a problem on this table?"

I freeze at the sound of his soft, low voice speaking to us, pitched to convey his displeasure at the situation. I turn to look at him as his dark eyes first penetrate Seska’s, and then shift to settle on my face, the brown depths clearly flashing with anger.

Though I am not sure, at the moment, which of us it’s directed at.

"No, sir," I hear myself replying to his query. "There’s no problem, uh, no problem at all."

"I just asked him to play pool with me," Seska drawls sarcastically. "But it appears Admiral Paris’ son doesn’t see us poor Maquis fit enough to even play a game of pool with."

What the fuck is her problem? I find myself floundering as I try to come up with a response to her statement. But Chakotay again beats me to it.

"It’s HIS choice who he wants to play with, and who he doesn’t." Chakotay sounds irritated.

"Chakotay." She’s bristling now. "He’s a fucking traitor. He betrayed us not once, but twice and prophets know how many other tricks he has up his sleeves..."

"Lieutenant Paris is a senior officer," Chakotay’s voice rings out in the bar. "And you will treat him with the same respect that you are expected to show any other officer superior to you on this ship."

"But Chakotay," she says, looking at her former captain incredulously. "You can’t forget that..."

"If I see you giving him any more problems from now on," he cuts her off in the middle of her sentence. "I’ll deal with you personally, Ensign," he growls at her. "Is that clear?"

She stares at the Indian open-mouthed for a few seconds, her eyes burning with scorn, and then snaps her mouth shut. "What’s the matter, Captain?" she huffs. "You switching sides already?"

I find I can’t breathe, as I watch the color on his face rise and the set of his jaw tighten with renewed anger. His hands curl into fists and I am almost certain that he is going to hit her, and hit her hard. But instead he takes a deep breath and turns to his right.

"Mr. Ayala," his voice booms into the silence of the poolroom. "Take Ensign Seska to her quarters and make sure there’s a security code installed on her door for the night." Then he looks at her and states in a remarkably calm voice. "You are confined to your quarters until your next duty shift." He stares at her until Ayala moves to grab her arm, but she pulls it out of his grip and with a scowl in my direction, turns around and walks out of the holodeck, the Maquis security officer on her tail.

I keep my eyes riveted to the doors but I can sense all eyes on us, as my heart beats erratically inside my chest. What is he going to do now? Give me a lecture in front of everyone? Tell me that I should make more of an effort to keep things under control because I am a senior officer? Or turn around and walk out of the bar as well?

"Mr. Paris."

I force myself not to flinch at his voice.

"Is this your table?"

I look at him in confusion. "Um, yes sir," I reply, wondering where this is leading.

Obsidian eyes look deeply into mine for a moment and then he asks; "How about a game of pool?"

I need a moment to recover from my shock and then I watch him leaning over the table and racking the balls without waiting for my reply.

"Yes, sir," I say anyway.

He stops in mid-movement and looks back up at me, an unreadable expression passing over his face for a split-second before it’s gone. "We’re off-duty, y’know," he says softly. "You can call me Chakotay." He looks at me another beat. "Stripes." And then lowers his gaze, returning to his task of racking the balls.

I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. "Alright, Chakotay."

He aims with a cue ball and breaks, sending two object balls into the pockets. I try to focus on the game, on the placements of the balls, on his playing style, but it’s hard to pay attention to anything. He’s like an automaton, working on autopilot, leaning, aiming, shooting, pocketing - but just not looking up at me. The set of his jaw has tightened again, his eyes flashing with something dark as he bends and shoots, as if a struggle still goes on within his mind.

After three impressive shots, for some strange reason he scratches, and I get my first chance. I step forward to take the table and hear the crowd stir back to life behind me. The silence in the bar breaks and people start talking again, moving on with whatever they were doing before Seska approached me.

And suddenly I realize what’s happening.

This is no friendly game of pool we are playing. This is something entirely different at work, something below the surface, something hidden and obscure, and yet very clear and simple at the same time.

By playing with me, Chakotay is sending a message to the crew. He’s telling them that he has no problems with me even if I joined Voyager as a Starfleet observer with the sole purpose of leading them to his ship. He’s telling them the Maquis have no problems with me either.

He’s also telling them that regardless of all that’s happened and been said about me in the past, he trusts me and therefore, so should they.

I feel my gut twist in opposite directions.

I feel exhilarated that he’s making an effort to create a feeling of accord among the crews, that he’s publicly showing faith in me, that he’s telling the crew that none of what Seska accused me of only a short while ago is true. She was only spiteful, angry, pissed off for reasons beyond imagination. She wasn’t being rational, his message says.

Yet at the same time my heart clenches inside my chest at the feeling of being used, for there is a sense of duplicity in this gesture that makes me feel slightly sick. His gesture says he’s only doing it for the ship, only making this effort for the well being of the crew. His sole intention is to kill any potential problem between Maquis and Starfleet crewmembers before it flares up into something bigger and unmanageable.

Nothing more.

Still as I lean across the table to make my shot, I feel the heat of his gaze on me, burning me, boring into the back of my head. However, when I straighten up and send a cursory glance in his direction, his dark eyes are carefully averted, his brow furrowed in concentration, as if he’s studying no more than the placement of my balls. His jaw is tight, his eyes narrow, as if all he cares about is the calculation of his next move on the table.

I feel something pinching at the back of my throat. His apparent disinterest is like a stinging thorn in my heart. It’s as if I am nothing more than what Seska accused me of - someone who betrayed him - a traitor, someone not really worthy of his trust. He may be telling the rest of the crew to trust me, but his own body language speaks of the betrayal he still feels at my hands. He still thinks I led Starfleet to him, still thinks I wanted them to catch him, even though that’s something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy - let alone him.

I bend forward to make my second shot, and all of a sudden the need, this urge, to return the shell to him presses down on me. I want to tell him that I didn’t rat on him and that I would rather die then deceive him. My concentration off, I don’t even care when I screw up the shot and instead straighten up, determined to open my mouth and get it over with. My eyes lock with his and there’s something in his eyes - something unreadable and pensive - and I blink, suddenly confused, suddenly forgetting what I was supposed to say.

Conflict shrouds my mind. All of a sudden I am not sure what’s going on here, not sure what he is thinking, not sure if his gesture is really that artificial, that fake. I try to gauge his emotions, try to search his deep, thoughtful eyes for a clue, but he doesn’t give me a chance. He only holds my gaze for a mere moment longer and then looks down to the table.

He directs his attention fully to the game on the table, while my mind is awhirl with mystification at the other game I am sure is being played. I feel out of my depth, not able to focus on the score, on the number of balls he pockets, on anything except him. My eyes follow the way he holds the cue-stick, his long, strong fingers casually folding around the holographic wood, while my own fingers itch to reach out and trace the powerful lines of his muscular frame as he leans over the table to aim at a ball.

My gut tightens as I bite the insides of my cheeks and scrunch my eyes shut in a desperate attempt to restrain myself. What’s wrong with me? I feel like I am going crazy.

I open my eyes and watch him sinking one ball after another, and another, belatedly realizing that he’s beating me at pool and that I am not able to do a thing except watch him do it. I hear Ricki mumbling somewhere close by that I am losing my touch and hear myself tell her that it’s quite alright. But he’s beating you, she insists. Yeah, that’s what he’s supposed to think, I say to her.

He hears the exchange without offering a word, and continues on until he has sunk his last ball. The game won, he raises his head in victory and just as our eyes meet again, a commotion erupts into the bar. Startled, we look around and watch the wooden doors swing open to admit Sandrine’s newest visitors.

I watch Captain Janeway striding inside my seedy replica of a backwater Parisian poolroom accompanied by Harry Kim and blink in stupefaction as, for a second or two, all coherent thought flees me.

What the hell is Harry doing? He brought the captain to Sandrine?

I turn to look at Chakotay to see his reaction, only to realize that he has already walked away from our pool table.

Walked away to mingle with the ones he has no qualms about having a decent conversation with.

Walked away without a single glance in my direction.

 

 

"He’s a pig, Paris, and so are you."

I find myself smiling at the memory of B’Elanna’s words. Watching the shark get the tongue-lashing he got from the fiery Klingon was pure entertainment. Maybe I will add a warning sub-routine to his program to not try teaching pool to hotheaded Maquis females who live and breathe engine rooms, and who would gladly bite off your head at the first sign of defiance.

Some things never change, I guess.

As crazy as it sounds, the captain proved far easier to charm than B’Elanna. The gigolos who, to my dismay, accosted her on her arrival got flirted right back with the cool confidence of someone who knew her way around. I had expected a reprimand from the woman on creating this atrocious holo-fantasy and programming these crazy holographic patrons in this setting, but instead, she laughed and joined us in our games.

The crowd has thinned out significantly, the captain, Harry and B’Elanna long gone. As I turn around, I find my eyes searching for Chakotay and with a start; I realize he’s nowhere to be seen. I can’t even remember when he left the bar and even though he obviously had no intentions of socializing with me any further than he was forced to do so, I still feel a little disappointed that I didn’t notice him leaving. I check the time and am surprised to find it’s almost 2300 hours. I give my regards to the scant few crewmembers left in Sandrine and walk out of holodeck two.

Sandrine’s debut with the crew went a lot better than I had expected. I know I made no big fans tonight, but watching the two senior-most officers on the ship interact with me on a personal level seemed to help them take a first step towards setting aside their prejudices. Many of the same crewmembers that had been distant earlier in the evening came forward to talk to me, asking me about Marseilles, and inquiring about my holo-programming skills. They did go back to their ignore-Tom-Paris-routine as soon as the captain left, but that was to be expected I guess.

There’s only one thing on my mind now that all the excitement is over. The most important agenda at hand, before I let other trivial things sway my judgment, was to talk to Chakotay. He’s looking for the shell. I have no right to keep it in my possession knowing that he’s looking for it.

Swallowing heavily, I ask the computer for his location. Deck 9, section 13, comes as the answer. Is he alone? I ask. Affirmative, says the computer. Not knowing what he’s doing where he is, not knowing what I’ll find there, I board the turbolift and find myself on my way down, my eyes riveted to the panel in front of me, glowing and dimming with each level descended.

Deck 9 is so far mostly uninhabited. There are no occupied crew quarters there, no working science labs, nothing except for long empty lounges and big wide viewports overlooking the vastness of space. What could he be doing there? I have no idea.

By the time I finally track down section 13 on deck 9 and am standing in front of the closed doors, my heart has started its drumbeat inside my chest again. I know there won’t be any peace for my restless mind unless I return the shell. Why then are my palms sweaty all of a sudden, why this sense of dread engulfs my whole being?

But the time for speculation is now over. I dig the seashell out of the pocket and, clenching it tightly into my palm, step through the doors that slide open to allow me inside.

It’s one of the larger observation lounges that are sometimes used for stargazing, though I have never been to this part of this deck before. My gaze glides over the endless view of stars streaking past the portal at warp speed, sliding past the few chairs and lounges lined up against the wall in no particular order, before falling over him.

He is standing on the far right side of the room with his back to me. I notice he has changed out of his uniform, his one arm is resting on the windowsill above his head while the other holds the frame at the bottom as he leans against the pane, apparently deep in thought.

A new wave of trepidation suddenly rushes through my veins as I quietly contemplate what to say to him. How will I explain to him that the shell is with me? He will have questions. What will I say to him? What if he doesn’t understand? What IS there to understand? Do I tell him about Lovaugim? Do I tell him about my nightmares that showed me the shell even before I knew of its existence? He’ll think I am crazy.

A weak, involuntary sound of protest probably comes from the back of my suddenly dry throat because I watch him straighten up abruptly, snapping out of his reverie. He spins around in alarm to look into my equally shocked eyes and I realize that I’ve suddenly run out of time.

"Hello," I say, swallowing painfully at the lump inside my throat. "Um, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you."

He blinks a couple of times in confusion, before offering. "That’s okay."

I watch his dark eyes quickly run down my length once, and then up once, as he slightly cocks his head to one side as if trying to figure out what I am up to. "Is there anything I can do for you, Lieutenant?"

"No, I..." I find myself stammering, as my mind flounders to come up with an appropriate response. "I just, I just wanted to say thank you," I wet my lips with a quick stroke of my tongue. "Umm, for how you handled the situation, with Seska, I mean."

For a split second something that looks like realization tints his expressive eyes and then his face grows vague, as if he’s trying to cover his tracks, as if he can’t allow me to read him. "No need to thank me, Mr. Paris," he says. "I was only doing my job."

Yet again I am aware of much more than just his words and expressions. I open my mouth to respond and then close it, not knowing what to say in the face of his almost overwhelming presence. He exudes an aura of such calm strength about him that I find myself restless in comparison.

My silence confuses him, I think, as he looks at me curiously and a shade of perplexity colors his eyes. "You’re, uh, welcome," he adds carefully.

"Yeah, I..." I scramble to provide an adequate answer. "I just wanted you to know that it means a lot to me."

I feel my heart skip a beat as an unexpected softness touches his face. "Thanks for letting me know," he says, almost gently.

There’s that soft, dark pensiveness in his brown eyes again, something I can’t quite pinpoint, but find myself drowning into its depths nonetheless. I am at a loss for words and I know it makes me look stupid and try to snap out of my daze to say something but, instead, my errant eyes fall over his body. Brown. He’s wearing a brown shirt, full-sleeved, buttoned-down at the front. His long, strong legs are clad in simple black pants that are neither too tight, nor loose, just perfect on him. I see his muscular chest rising and falling with every breath he takes and realize the scent of him is taking over my senses again. His power is alluring me, seducing me, working its magic inside my veins, and I feel my mouth turn dry with the forbidden need to touch him.

"Was there anything else you wanted to say to me?"

I realize he has spoken because I see his lips move but it takes me a moment before the meaning of the words makes sense to my jumbled brain.

"Uhh, yes, there was." Yes, there was. The shell, dammit. I am supposed to return it to him. I grip the shell between my fingers, open my hand and raise it palm-side-up for him to inspect. "I believe you’re looking for this."

He looks down at my palm and I know the exact moment his brain makes the connection because the blood seems to suddenly drain from his face. My heart skips a beat in alarm as the same face that was an epitome of calmness a mere moment ago, breaks into a look of utter disbelief.

"WHAT THE HELL?" he chokes in shock, as a parade of endless conflicting emotions enfolds on his face one after the other, each replaced by the next in quick succession before I can decipher what the last meant. "How did you get this?" his voice shakes.

"I..."

"Where did you get this from, Paris?" he demands, cutting me off before I can offer anything, his voice rising in volume, as his expression dissolves into something that is a cross between suspicion and revulsion and, all at once, it occurs to me that somewhere I have made a fatal error.

"Chakotay..."

"GIVE IT TO ME," he cuts me off again as he snatches the shell out of my palm, making me flinch. "Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for this?"

"Yes," I try to breathe. "For three days."

He growls, "What?" his distrust obvious.

"I..." A voice inside me insists that I should think through before I offer anything else, that I should choose my words properly, that I should make sure I am saying the right thing to him. He’s confused and upset and wouldn’t take kindly to anything that sounds even remotely suspicious. "I..." But isn’t telling the truth the right thing? Wouldn’t it be better if I really came clear about how I found he was looking for the shell? "I heard you and B’Elanna talking in Sandrine’s."

"You’ve been SPYING on us?" he spits, suddenly enraged, his eyes hot and accusing on my tense frame.

"No," I gasp. I wasn’t planning it. That’s not how it came about. How can I tell him that it was just through an accident? "That’s not what I meant, Chakotay."

"How the hell did you GET this shell, Paris?"

I feel a shudder run through me as I see his eyes turn cold with suspicion.

"I... its..." I fumble, not knowing how to counter this. "Chak, it’s a little hard to explain..." Damn, why the hell didn’t I think before I acted on my impulse to come to him. I had two fucking months to come up with a plan and yet I had to get trapped in this dilemma.

"Hard to explain?" he snaps, the color on his face continuously rising at my inability to respond in a way that at the least resembles some form of coherency. "Is that all you can come up with?"

"I..."

"How did you do it, Paris?" he snarls, as the suspicion on his face transforms into disgust. "You making use of your prison talents to break into people’s quarters now?"

I feel my stomach drop as the meaning of his words sinks down. "What? No. I, I didn’t break into your quarters..."

I realize that as defenseless as this makes me feel, he’s actually making a logical assumption according to the situation at hand. If he went through the security logs for last night, he’d easily find out that I in fact did access Harry’s main door without authorization. He wouldn’t know I only did it so that I could wake up my friend and take him to see Sandrine’s before I opened it to the public the next evening. All he’d see is that I indeed broke into Ensign Kim’s quarters without authorization, using my reluctantly acquired prison talents.

"Have you really, finally come down to this now?" He’s really working himself up now, his teeth gritted, his eyes flashing dangerously. Yet, in spite of all the distrust that is so obvious in his demeanor, I also see an inscrutable hint of pain shimmering in his deep, brown eyes. Pain. Hurt. Dejection.

I feel my heart lurching in sympathy despite of itself.

"Chakotay," I bite my lips nervously. "You’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t break into your quarters." It belatedly occurs to me that if he were to go through the security logs with the quiet Maquis precision of the tactical knowledge and experience he’s known in the entire Federation for, he’d also find out that I have NEVER broken into HIS quarters.

However he’s not thinking about going through security logs right now. "What other explanation is there for this?" He’s just mad, upset and doing the first thing most aggressive people do when they feel their privacy invaded. Going into attack mode.

"I didn’t steal this from you, Commander. It was..." I feel trapped and not knowing what to do or how to explain, I blurt out. "Someone gave this to me... two months ago."

He looks incredulous, almost sickened. "Why the HELL would anyone give this to YOU?" His jaw tightens even more. "Why would anyone want to TAINT this by giving it to someone like YOU?" A half-chuckle, half-disgusted-snort comes out of his throat. "Oh, I forgot, lying is one of your most striking character traits."

My throat suddenly clamps at the wave of anguish that cascades through me. So, it didn’t take it long for him to show me my place, did it? His eyes blaze with something that is too agonizingly familiar, too painful, something that has haunted me a thousand times in dreams I don’t want to remember, in a life I can’t forget.

Betrayal.

I find myself gasping in pain. It’s the same thing all over again. He thinks I am a traitor. He thinks I cheated on him, deceived him, and fucked him over. He thinks that I accepted the position on Voyager just to help them catch him. He probably thinks the Federation caught me when I was in his Maquis cell according to some sinister preplanned scheme too.

Torres was wrong. He hates me. He would never believe anything I’d ever say.

It’s all in vain.

"What?" he grates, when I am not able to respond. "No clarifications? I am disappointed in you, Paris. I expected a better performance from you."

"I didn’t steal it, Chak," I choke, as tears brim in my eyes. Spinning around on my heels before he can see them, I clamber out of the observation lounge.

Right before the doors slide close, I hear him yell after me. "Where the hell do you think you’re going? You haven’t answered me yet."

But I don’t stop. I know the closest turbolift is down the corridor to my left, still I turn right, blindly running down the corridors. The walls around are closing in on me, squeezing my insides, strangling me, as I push my way through the various turns and bends, my eyes blurring with pain. I hear the loud thumping of my keening heart in my ears, feel my breath choking in my clenching throat, as I try to brush my unshed tears away. Shit, I am not going to cry, not out here, not when there is a chance of Chakotay following me and catching up with me. I have to get away from here. I can’t let him see how much his words have wounded me.

Oh God, but none of this is his fault. I am the one who fucked it all up. I should never have gone to him after two months of staying away like an idiot, to return the shell. I should have in fact done exactly what he accused me of doing; that is broken into his quarters to leave the shell there without him ever finding out. Dammit, he only realized it was missing three fucking days ago. I had almost two months in which to plan it and execute it properly. What in the hell possessed me to go to him, babbling and jabbering, like I did tonight?

I feel the insistent tears prickling at the corners of my burning eyes and impatiently wipe them away again. Dammit, I am not going to cry, I am not going to break down like this.

In the midst of the haze that is choking and seizing my senses, I still somehow manage to find a corridor that leads to the second turbolift and scramble into it.

And come to a skidding stop.

There are six crewmembers in my way to the turbolift. Some lounging against the bulkheads, some standing in the middle of the corridor, a couple even sitting in the corner next to the lift door, all engrossed in some excited banter. I look at the lift doors and realize it’s a good twenty paces from my position. Still it’s not too far away so I straighten my uniform and start walking towards it, careful to keep my gaze straight and away from the crewmen. I don’t want to get involved in any needless conversations in this state of mind.

It’s not until I am halfway through and walking around the group standing in the middle of the corridor that they notice me for the first time and abruptly their chatter stops.

Not that I am surprised. I often have this effect on people anywhere I go. Even on Voyager there have been times when I would enter a filled-to-capacity messhall, bustling with commotion, and suddenly a pin drop silence would descend over the entire crowd. People would stare at me for long seconds, their guarded, suspicious expressions in place, before slowly returning to their discarded conversations. It would start deliberately, a slow, cautious droning of whispers into eagerly turned ears, as accusing eyes looked at me from beneath lowered lashes.

A tarnished past is something that never truly leaves you, I guess.

I am quite used to it now. It hardly ever affects me anymore unless someone says something directly to me.

So, keeping my track record in mind, I ignore the men in the corridor and carry on ‘till I reach the doors. The lift is not available at the moment and I press the panel next to the doors to call it, thinking they will most likely ignore me if I ignore them.

I am wrong.

"Ahh, look who’s here."

I start at the chilling drawl.

"The Maquis traitor sauntering down deck 9 as if his father owns the fucking ship."

I feel a shiver run down my spine, my heart lurching inside my chest, as I turn my startled eyes to face the owner of the voice. The voice I can never forget no matter how hard I try, no matter how often I tell myself that it’s a part of a life, a nightmare, I’ve awakened from.

Yosa.

"Oh, I forgot," he continues, his tone torpid. "His father DOES own the fucking ship," he concludes, to an eruption of derisive chortles and sniggers from the group.

I look into his wily gaze and, all of a sudden, I am back at the well-digging site, reliving a thousand hateful encounters on that hellhole. I swallow hard at the bile rising up in my throat, my breath catching, as I notice the ruthless gleam in his eyes. I glance at his buddies and realize they are all Maquis, none of whom I remember from before. It seems Yosa has formed a new band of thugs on Voyager. These poor fucks all died at the hand of the Kazon the last time.

I abruptly come out of my thoughts when I see them standing up, forming a wall behind the two of us.

Shit, you have to get out of here; I hear a voice inside me warn. But the lift has still not arrived. I watch them moving into position, their eyes hooded, their lips pressed into thin forbidding lines. Get out; get out of here now, my insides scream. But I can do nothing other than wait for the lift to come.

I take a deep breath before I turn my face to the door again, mentally willing him to leave me alone, knowing in my heart he won’t.

"What’s the matter, Tommy?" he purrs, as he leans against the bulkhead beside me, forcing me to look at him again. "Don’t you wanna play?" His tone is lazy, and there’s a sinister glint in his eyes that makes my spine turn cold in trepidation.

"No, thanks," I hear myself mutter, averting my gaze. I turn to the door again, but Yosa apparently doesn’t like being ignored because he steps even closer, invading my space.

I feel my hands curl into fists, unwittingly readying for attack. "Get out of my way," I snap at him, harshly elbowing him away, my voice trembling with contempt.

"What will you do, if I don’t?" he drawls, and suddenly I am made aware of another pertinent little detail as a waft of his rank breath hits my nostrils.

Alcohol.

He’s fucking drunk. They all are.

My heart thuds against my ribcage, suddenly aware of the grimness of the situation. I know the look on his face, the gleam in his eyes. It’s a look that still haunts me in my dreams no matter how hard I try to force it away. No matter how many times I remind myself that it will never happen again, that what I went through on that doomed planet was part of a different lifetime, something inside me can’t bring itself to quite believe it. A part of me keeps telling me that Lovaugim was NOT a dream. It was a reality; a painful, horrific nightmare, that came true once and so can come true again.

I turn around on my heels, trying to find a way around them and feel my temples throb in pain as his Maquis come to stand even closer, completely blocking my path, their drunken expressions hard with disdain.

"Get the fuck out of my way." I growl, determined to keep my voice controlled, my face straight - and failing, as a small, involuntary tremor slinks into my voice.

"What’s the matter, Paris?" Yosa wets his lips with a flick of his tongue, as I turn around to punch at the panel again, silently urging the lift to arrive already, knowing there’s no way I can make it back the way I came from. "Didn’t you enjoy your time with the gangs on that hellhole?" I halt at his words as my startled gaze meets his in confusion. "You made a pretty good distraction to all those horny bastards stuck down there, didn’t you?"

My heart leaps in my chest at his words. What the hell is he... talking about? He couldn’t possibly know what happened in Lovaugim, what I went through.

He sees my bafflement and sneers. "What? You think we didn’t know anything that went down in Auckland?" he chortles, and I suddenly realize what he’s really talking about. "Hell, the Captain even used to get weekly reports about how his lost lust object who betrayed him and the Maquis was playing fuck-toy to the Federation’s filthiest criminals."

My ears are suddenly ringing, my eyes filling again, as his words hit me. He’s lying, my heart cries, I know he’s lying. Chakotay didn’t know anything about Auckland, didn’t know what I went through there. And then the meaning of his words, the implication, penetrates my foggy brain. What did he call me? Chakotay’s... lust object?

Before I am aware of what I am doing, a feral cry wrenches from my throat as I launch myself at him. "SHUT UP!" My vision blurs and all I am aware of is the humiliation of his words as I push him backwards, punching his face, trapping him to the wall. "YOU’RE A LIAR!" I scream, pummeling into him, my good sense clouded by the waves of anger stifling my judgment.

"Fucking SLUT," he screams in rage, punching me in the stomach and suddenly I find myself thrown back to the closed lift doors, as he jumps back at me, trapping me against the doors. His drunken blows aren’t aimed well enough for serious damage and I just find myself dazed, as I try to block out his blows, kneeing him in the groin in the process. He cries in pain and claws me in the chest, pulling my jacket’s zipper apart, his nails scratching my skin through my turtleneck. Feeling bile rising up my throat, I clutch his biceps, his fingers tearing at my chest and, breaking off his hold on me, I throw him backwards.

He staggers a few times but doesn’t fall and I watch, shaking against the door, as he straightens up and throwing a look of utter contempt at me, drops something out of his clenched fist onto the floor.

I look at the object. It’s my combadge. I look down at my empty chest, and realize he must have snatched it off my shirt when he was clawing at my clothes. I watch as he stomps on the small plastic device, crushing it with his boot.

"Don’t think you’ll call anyone for help now, whore," he snarls. "Fucking loser, who you gonna cry to now?"

His words only fuel my already soaring temper. "BASTARD," I scream, and spring at him again but he’s ready this time. He leaps back at me, meeting me halfway, and we wrestle against the doors again, screaming bloody murder at each other. Amidst the enraged clawing and grappling, I hear the distinct sound of the approaching turbolift behind me but, before either of us can disentangle ourselves, the doors open and we’re both thrown back inside the car. Before I know it, I’ve lost my footing and with an ungraceful stagger I crash down to the floor of the lift. Yosa lands on top me, his fingers still clawing at my throat.

"GET OFF ME," I scream, kicking back at him, his weight crushing me, as he grinds his pelvis into my groin.

Too reminiscent, too fucking reminiscent of another lifetime, my gasping brain splutters as I struggle to get free.

"WHORE," he yells, his fingers pulling my hair, his nails scratching my throat, as I try to pry him off me.

And then suddenly, he’s gone. For a moment I don’t know what to make of the sudden silence, shocked at being left alone, as the only sound I hear is the buzzing of my own blood beating against my temples. And then slowly my vision clears and I hear noise of another commotion around me.

I scramble to my feet, my body swaying, and turn my dazed eyes to find Dalby - Dalby? - grappling with Yosa, trying to restrain the drunken Maquis, shaking him.

"You have no FUCKING idea what the Captain is going to DO to you, man." Dalby grits his teeth, accentuating each word with a violent jolt to rattle the inebriated man. "He’s gonna be so fucking FURIOUS, you’ll regret you ever did this."

"He’s a SLUT," Yosa whines, kicking back, trying to shake off Dalby’s grip. "Chakotay is only USING him to bring the Fleeters in line. He doesn’t give a FUCK about him."

My hands clench into fists at the words, as I take a step forward to help Dalby in his task. But I am stopped in my tracks as he pinches Yosa’s biceps and throws him out of the lift, then follows him out.

Just as the lift doors start to slide close, Dalby whips his head around to stare at me with hard eyes. "Go back to your cabin, Paris," he snarls, his eyes flashing with anger and something else that looks distinctly like concern.

I look at the other Maquis behind Yosa and am startled to notice the bewilderment on their faces. It suddenly occurs to me that they really don’t want to be a part of this, never wanted to be a part of this.

"Didn’t you hear what I said?" Dalby urges impatiently. "I’ve got everything under control, now get out of here."

And with that he steps back, the doors close, and I find myself leaning back against the wall, my hands clutching what remains of my tattered jacket. I don’t remember ordering the lift to my deck; don’t know how it gets there or how I enter my quarters. Nor do I have any memory of locking my main door or stripping off my torn clothes.

All I am aware of is this gnawing, biting emptiness burrowing into my soul, this surge of terrible, incomprehensible loneliness staggering me, as I crawl into bed, my whole body trembling uncontrollably as the realization of the mess I have gotten myself into sinks down on me.

It’s all my doing.

I should’ve been ready for what happened tonight. I had faced enough similar situations in my recent dark past to know I wasn’t supposed to get entangled in situations like I did tonight.

I should’ve just turned around and walked back the way I’d come in the first place. But no, I was too afraid of having to face Chakotay.

The thought of the man wrenches my heart, its splinters gouging my soul, as the dam finally breaks and tears roll down my face.

Yosa is right.

Chakotay DOES hate me. He thinks I betrayed him. Maybe I did. Maybe it’s me whose interpretation has been wrong all along.

Even by returning the shell to him, I’ve screwed everything up. Because I failed to return it in time, because I was incapable of explaining my reasons and my situation to him, I’ve ruined any chance I ever had of knowing him, of showing him how I truly feel about him.

Any chance I ever had of loving him.

Chakotay hates me and it’s only my own fault.

 

 

I can’t breathe.

There’s sand filling my nostrils, my mouth and my eyes.

I can’t see.

I struggle, trying to kick them off me, but they only tighten their grip on my arms, twisting them painfully behind me. I scream, afraid that they will pull them out of the sockets, but my mouth is filling with sand, my face is pressed down to the ground, my throat is hoarse and any sound I make is muffled.

"The Captain LOVED the weekly reports he got about how you played fuck-toy to the Federation’s filthiest, you SLUT."

I hear Yosa’s panting breath in my ears, my heart turning over at his words. "And now..." His fingers claw at my skin, crawling between my legs. "...He’ll enjoy the reports of your escapades with the Maquis on Voyager too, because he hates you..."

"NO!" I cry, my brain screaming at me that he’s lying; that what he’s saying couldn’t be true. "Chakotay," I whimper, calling out to him.

But my mouth is filling with sand.

My throat is hoarse.

And any sound I make is muffled.

 

 

I bolt upright in the semi-darkness, coughing and sputtering, my chest heaving with exertion. My heart beats wildly as the memories of the nightmare smother me. I gulp in long, deep breaths of air, trying to calm my galloping heart.

I tentatively touch my face and find it clean. There’s no sand, no constriction blocking my throat and nostrils. Nothing but a reminiscent dampness streaking down my face.

It’s alright, I touch the rumpled bedding around me as I try to reassure myself. I am in my quarters. I am safe. It was just a nightmare.

And then I hear it.

The door chime.

One long, insistent buzz. As though the person ringing the chime has forgotten to remove their finger from the panel.

Followed by a small, impatient pause.

And then another drawn out, relentless buzz.

My heart starts thudding again. I order lights up and look at the chronometer. It’s almost 2 am. Who could be here so late? Maybe it’s Yosa. Maybe Dalby wasn’t able to hold them down for too long. How long ago was it anyway? What time did I come back to my quarters?

I realize I can’t remember.

The buzzing continues and I am clambering out of my bed, my head spinning at the unending clamor of the door chime when, suddenly, it stops and I hear the unmistakable sound of the main doors sliding open. I freeze as the threat of imminent danger hits me. Whoever was at the door has now broken into my quarters. I look around for my combadge, wanting to contact security and realize I don’t have it with me.

Yosa took it off my jacket during the scuffle and I never got it back.

"TOM!"

I jump at the voice.

"ARE YOU THERE?"

Chakotay?

"TOM!" His voice is loud, desperate, and I suddenly rush out of the bedroom, freezing at the sight of him. He’s standing just inside my door, still wearing the same clothes he was wearing when I saw him in the Observation Lounge, and I notice a strange, frantic shimmer in his eyes.

He looks at me and an expression, something I can’t quite recognize, passes over his face. "TOM. Are you alright?" he asks, his brow wrinkling in apparent concern at whatever he sees on my face.

I struggle to find words to reply to him. Tom. He called me Tom. He’s never, ever before called me by my first name. It’s always been Paris, crewman, or lieutenant.

Why is he here?

I find his eyes running down my length, as if searching for something, and I suddenly realize I am only clad in my shorts. Suddenly self-conscious, I feel the heat of his gaze on my body and an involuntary shiver runs down my spine.

But there’s nothing covert, nothing veiled or sordid, lurking in his gaze, nothing except for an unfamiliar, yet somehow comforting, shade of concern glittering in his warm eyes.

When I don’t reply to his query, he takes a step forward. "Tom, are you HURT?"

I snap out of my daze and swallow hard. "No, I...." I suddenly notice the creases around his eyes, the way his short military-style hair look a little unruly, the way his bronze skin looks flushed and his breathing ragged, as if... as if he’s run a marathon. "I... I am fine."

I don’t know what he notices on my face, but his face suddenly stiffens and he grits his teeth. "Do you have ANY idea how long I’ve been standing outside buzzing at your door?" He frowns. "Why the HELL weren’t your answering your chime?"

I swallow at the sudden transition. Doesn’t he realize what time it is? "I was, uh, in bed."

"You gave me a SCARE, Tom," he growls, as if he hasn’t heard me. "And Spirits know what kind of security lock you had on the door. It took me AGES to override it."

But that’s not what it sounded like; I want to say to him. Of course no one would ask the First Officer why he broke into a junior officer’s quarters at two in the morning, would they? Then again, he probably covered his tracks. With a sinking heart, I realize that Chakotay is back to the same mood I left him with in the Observation Lounge.

I wonder how long it would take him to bring up the topic of the shell.

Before I can say anything to him, though, I am interrupted by his combadge going off.

"Dalby to Commander Chakotay."

I flinch. Why is Dalby calling him at 2 am? I look at Chakotay’s eyes searchingly and find them narrowing in distaste. He taps his combadge impatiently.

"What is it?" he snaps into the comline.

"Sir," Dalby’s voice wavers but he continues. "We’ve secured Yosa’s cabin. What else do you want us to do?"

Yosa? My ears perk up at the name, my eyes narrowing in suspicion, as I search Chakotay’s face for any clue regarding what this might be about. But the only reaction I see is a slight tightening of the skin around his eyes. What is going on here?

"What you’re ALWAYS supposed to do in these situations," he growls. "Disable voice-interface from their quarters using the authorization code I gave you. Explain to him and the others that they’re to stay in their quarters until their next duty shifts." His tone is angry yet his face is strangely calm, as he shifts his dark eyes to pin me motionless. "They are NOT to leave their quarters until the next time they’re expected on duty."

"Next shift, sir?" Dalby’s voice sounds unsure over the comline. "None of them are due back until day after tomorrow, Commander."

I watch as Chakotay’s jaw tightens another fraction. "I know," he says, sounding infinitesimally pleased. "Make sure all their replicators are offline and that Mr. Yosa doesn’t have access to any kind of medical supplies. I want him to feel the pain a little while longer." His voice turns a tad colder. "It’s a punishment, after all."

Shit. My heart starts beating wildly. What the hell has he done?

"Understood, sir," Dalby says.

"Have Ayala put a security code on all their doors."

"Done, sir."

I watch Chakotay’s left-hand rise to slap his combadge again and that is when I notice the marks on his left hand. Slight, almost unnoticeable, bruises on his knuckles - bluish and ugly - that are nonetheless discernable to my eyes, as though he has slammed his fist against something.

Or someone.

"Chakotay out," he growls, and my startled gaze falls back on his face, meeting his unflinching dark eyes.

"What happened to your hand?" I ask stupidly.

He raises an eyebrow. "My hand?"

I look down at his hand and then up into his eyes again. "Yes, your knuckles. They’re hurt."

He slowly blinks. "My hands are fine."

How can he be so calm? I feel a buzzing start in my ears again. "What did you do to him?" I ask. Please say you didn’t do it. Please tell me you didn’t kick his ass on my behalf. The last thing I want is a horde of mad Maquis after my life for ratting on one of their own.

"I simply administered some Maquis discipline," he says, and that’s when I notice the slight tightening of his jaw, the flush on his skin deepening with every heartbeat, and it suddenly occurs to me that he’s trying his best to take it slow, to stay calm, but in truth his control is only skin deep.

Something inside me warns that now isn’t the time to test his control. His anger is too tightly coiled at the moment. He’s this close to completely springing out of control, so I should probably not get in his way, but my mouth all of a sudden has grown a mind of its own.

"Their replicators are offline," I hear myself protest and I know I have finally gone crazy for I am complaining on Yosa and his gang’s behalf. How much more convoluted can my life get? "You’ve locked them in their quarters for more than forty-eight hours," I say. "They’ll starve."

"They’re Maquis, Tom. I know how to keep them in line. They won’t die."

"This is a Starfleet vessel."

"Is it?"

All of a sudden, I feel exasperated at his stoic facade. "I didn’t place any charges." Yes, I didn’t place any charges and I need you to stay the hell out of this mess.

"You didn’t have to," He grits his teeth. "Your safety is my responsibility. I take my responsibilities very seriously, Tom."

"I can take care of myself, Chakotay," I hear my voice rise in volume. "I don’t need you to be my keeper."

"I gave my word."

What? "The life-debt?" I ask, puzzled. "That means nothing."

"It means everything to me," he snarls.

But that’s not the way it’s supposed to be, dammit. I can take care of myself. I have to. What he did with Seska was one thing, but this can’t go on.

"You’ve gotta be kidding, Commander." I try to write off the whole issue in a flurry of insolent cockiness. "I only said it because I wanted to get you alive out of the caves. I wasn’t even serious."

His face freezes, his eyes glazing over, as I feel my heart jump in my throat.

"You weren’t?"

I take a ragged breath. "That’s right."

"Tell me, Tom," he says, wetting his lips with his tongue, my eyes lingering on every movement, as he looks up and down my length, and then cocks his head to one side, as if assessing me. "How long has this been going on?"

"What?" Why the sudden shift in the conversation? I look at him, trying to mask my emotions but I fear he can read me like a book.

"These threats." He arches his eyebrows. "How long have you been receiving threats from the Maquis?"

"Threats? They’re just empty words," I shrug nonchalantly. "They mean nothing."

His eyes bore into mine. "How many other times have you been attacked by one of my crew?"

"Never before," I stress, suddenly feeling trapped. "Tonight was the first time and it wasn’t really an attack. He just got a little rough." What is he getting at? He’s their former captain. Wouldn’t he have known if something like this had happened before?

"How many others, Tom?" he growls, taking a step forward.

"I am telling you, Chakotay." I feel my hands clench as I see his mood shift yet again. "This was the first time something like this happened."

"He assaulted you in front of five people." Another step forward; a deepening of the frown. "Are you telling me, this was the first time someone has done that?"

"Yes." I find myself take a step back. "But, I was the one who started it." I suddenly realize he’s too close, and that he’s too angry, and that if things get out of hand, if he loses his temper, I won’t really have any place to escape to.

"You’re saying that the first time someone DARES attack you," he continues, as though he hasn’t heard what I said. "And he does it in front of an audience?"

"Isn’t that the normal pattern of sexual offenders?" I blurt out before I can stop myself and then wince as something that looks like pain crosses his features.

"How many other incidents, Tom?" There’s something desperate, something almost desolate in his features, in this voice, and I feel my heart squeezing in my chest.

"None." I hear myself choke.

"You’re lying." His eyes are hot with anger, yet there’s a hint of unmistakable sorrow glistening in their brown depths.

"Chakotay, what’s wrong with you?" I demand.

He’s this close to almost touching me, so damn close, that I can smell his heady musk again, and feel his warmth invading my senses. I suddenly feel shaken, almost drunk, as if I’ve been drugged, my head swirling in confusion, as something I haven’t felt in a long time, something so long forgotten that I can’t even place it in the right category, stirs inside me.

"Why are you trying to save them?" he growls, as with just another step he is standing right in my face, his hands clenched into fists. His eyes flash dangerously. "You’re supposed to report these incidents to ME."

"There are no incidents to report, Commander." I try to wiggle away from him but I am trapped, for I can feel his hot breath fanning my convulsing throat, can smell his scent filling my nostrils, and my body isn’t really responding to the commands of my befuddled brain as efficiently as it should.

"I don’t believe you," he snarls, his eyes accusing, as he grasps my arms and pins me to wall.

"What are you doing?" My heart lurches and I grip his shoulders, trying to push him back.

"He TOUCHED you."

I feel his hot breath on my face, his fingers digging into my biceps, his face filled with conflict.

"He was THERE in Sandrine’s when I told everyone to lay off you and he DARED defy me."

Somewhere in the haze, my fuzzy brain comes to a rickety conclusion. Ah, so, this is what it is about, huh? He felt his authority undermined and now he’s going to take out his rage on me?

"He was DRUNK, Chakotay." My fingers dig into his shoulder blades, his body too damn warm, as he presses closer, his one hand gripping my shoulder and I see the other clenched hand rise. Oh shit, he’s gonna hit me, I hear a voice inside me scream, my heart hammering inside my chest as I struggle to shove him back, not really wanting to hit him, "Dammit, Chak," I say, my body instinctively tensing in anticipation of the blow.

The blow that never comes.

Instead, his hot mouth lands on mine, his silky tongue slipping inside my lips as he devours my mouth, his hands gripping me, pushing me flat against the wall, his whole length pressed against mine. For a moment, I am shocked into stillness, my ears buzzing, my heart beating wildly inside my chest, as his tongue strokes my clenched teeth and his velvet lips suck mine like there’s no tomorrow.

And then that feeling, that emotion, that had been evading me, that had been playing hide and seek with my senses just a while back, comes crashing back into full awareness, and my brain curls up letting my body take over.

My eyes close, my mouth opens, as my arms - my arms that had been gripping his shoulders, ready to shove him off me - move around to pull him close instead. He grinds his hips against mine, his mouth hot, his tongue relentless, as I feel his straining erection blissfully jutting against my groin, hot, hard and twitching, and an acknowledging moan escapes my throat, as my own cock hardens and presses against my now too tight shorts in response.

It’s this moan, I think, that takes him out of his reverie, because he suddenly starts and wrenches his mouth away from mine. With an effort, I open my eyes and stare at him, his face flushed, his breathing hitched, and I know I paint a mirroring picture. He looks at me, dazed, and flinches, his eyes filling with sudden remorse.

"I, shit, Tom, I..." he stammers, his eyes suddenly fearful at what he’s done. "I didn’t mean to do this, I...I am so sorry..."

But I am not. We’re past this. There’s no time for guilt. I can’t let him wallow.

So I grab his shoulders and pull him back to me, catching his lips with mine, drowning his cry of surprise with my invading mouth. This time it’s my tongue that darts into his mouth, my arms that fold around his powerful, muscular frame and pull him against me, and my hips that thrust forward to rub against his throbbing arousal.

I feel his warm fingers in my hair, massaging, stroking, running through the curly locks, and then he holds my face in his palms and carefully, deliberately, unlocks our meshed lips. I groan in disappointment at the loss of contact but he strokes my cheek with his thumb, and looks into my eyes, his warm brown eyes black with desire.

"We can’t do this, Tom," he groans, his breathing ragged, his eyes filled with conflict.

I squeeze his shoulder blades and run my hands down his strong back until they are resting on his hips and then I squeeze the firm swell of his ass, kissing him on his swollen lips.

"Yes, we can, Chak. I need you," I plead, my heart thudding. "Please, I need you to fuck me."

Something glitters in his liquid gaze, a fleeting hint of pained realization about something, about everything, my pain, my hurt, my need for him, before it’s replaced by sultry, hungry desire. I am pulled into a fierce embrace again, his mouth moving over my parted lips, kissing them, and moving down my neck, his long thick fingers trailing fiery paths down my spine. I hear his ragged, "Oh Spirits, Tom." against the side of my throat as he grinds his hips against me and, with a shudder, I nudge his legs apart with my knee, my other leg wrapping around his thigh.

"I need you, Chak," I groan, holding him close, rubbing his back, "Make me forget about them all," breathing his sweet scent, "make me yours."

And then he’s walking me into my bedroom, my legs wrapped around him, his arms tight around my waist, his lips pressed into mine. Still kissing me, still holding me, he lowers me to the bed, and I watch, enchanted, as he slowly strips, hovering above me, gorgeous and glistening with sweat, looking like a medieval god, carved and molded into an idol worth worshiping.

I watch with glazed eyes as his large, magnificent cock bounces free, jolting against his flat belly, its purpling, blunt head glistening with drops of pre-cum. I gasp as he tugs my shorts down and lies down full-length on me, his arms secure around me, his fingers rubbing my back, circling my spine, squeezing my ass, stroking my skin, sending electric sparks all through my nerve-endings. He licks and nips at my lips until they part, and then his tongue is plunging into my mouth, dueling with mine, kissing me senseless, and driving me out of my mind.

My fingers slide into his hair, trying unsuccessfully to clutch the too-short strands, and then slide down his back, gripping his arms, my fingernails scratching down his back, as I taste his sweet nectar, nipping his supple lips. He suddenly grabs my arms and pulls them over my head, his eyes dark and deep and aflame with passion. My straining cock trapped beneath his, I moan and writhe as he rubs the twitching length of his erection along my belly, but he bites my upper lip and growls. "Stay still." And then, gently licking and kissing the sting away, "You’re not to move," he purrs, "not an inch, Tom."

Thoroughly spellbound, I can’t help but tremble as his satin tongue moves up to take a tour of my face, seductively dancing over my eyes, contouring the fluttering line of my lashes, cavorting atop the bridge of my nose. Just the tip, that tantalizing tip, delicately, softly, almost randomly, stroking my chin, my cheek, my nose, until I am whimpering with need. And then moving onto the side of my face, where it plays with my left ear, flicking the tip - that tantalizing, enticing tip - inside the hollow, making me moan, and then nibbling on the tender earlobe, making me cry aloud.

Then taking mercy on my shivering, aching body, he takes a detour and zeroes in on my parted lips, licking them, kissing them, just enough to let me taste him on my tongue, before he squeezes my hands, disengages our mouths, and moves down to my neck.

My fingers threaded through his, both hands gripped in his, I squirm as I feel his teeth nibbling the long of my neck, his tongue laving, licking, dipping into the hollow of my throat.

"Ahhh, Chakotay," I groan, twisting under the sweet assault, shivering, as I feel his tongue moving along my collarbone, and then I cry out as he nips sharply, making me jerk.

"I said," he sucks at the spot, tugging it with his lips, marking it. "Not an inch." And then he’s moving down, nibbling, tasting, teasing, the long, sure strokes of his tongue a never-ending torment on my electrified senses. I feel myself quiver as he tugs at the sparse, soft curls at my chest with his teeth, his tongue running between the fuzz, bathing my skin, and then cry out as I feel his lips close around my left nipple.

"Oh God, Chak..." I groan, writhing, my arms flailing uncontrollably under his relentless mouth, and then tense as I feel his fingers digging into my wrists. I still in anticipation of more chiding, but he just grips my arms more tightly and simply pulls them away from my body, not saying a word, and continues on his glorious oral assault over my bedazzled nerve endings. He sucks, strokes, tugs, driving me close to madness, his silky tongue running over and around my nipples - first tugging one, then the other - making me sob in ecstasy.

I feel his hot tongue moving then, continuing its fairy strokes down my abdomen, dipping into my navel, making my skin tingle. My breath hitching, I groan and arch into his touch, as I feel his tongue trace a path downward, laving a smooth curving line down my pubis, his teeth teasing me, as he conveniently by-passes my jutting, throbbing cock and instead moves on to my inner thighs.

I think I groan a little too loudly at this apparent infraction because the tongue suddenly pauses and I feel a light kiss just below my scrotum.

"What is it, Tom?" he murmurs, his tone lazy, as I feel his sizzling tongue bathing my ball-sac with teasing strokes, "Do you want me to stop?"

My mouth falls opens but no words come out, just panting gasps, as I moan, my vision clouding, and feel his tongue licking its way up my throbbing shaft.

"Or do you want me to," he purrs, "go on?" He’s flicking the teasing tip over my drooling slit, kissing my sensitive head, my hips bucking at the fiery onslaught. "Mmmm, you taste so good," he hums, as his tongue traces my pulsing vein, dipping between my balls.

"Unhhh, Cha...aak."

I buck under him, my stunned mind wondering whether he actually expects me to answer his questions, as I feel myself shudder uncontrollably.

I hear his contended sigh, "Ohhh-kay," laughter in his voice. "I think I got the answer," He disengages his fingers from mine and I start, suddenly feeling bereft, my hands slack and cold at being let go all of a sudden. "Just don’t move your hands," I hear his deep voice, "And that’s an order!"

Don’t move my... What the hell?

With an effort, I prop myself up on my elbows to look down at him, and almost fall back down again, groaning, at the sight of Chakotay swallowing my weeping cock to the root into his hot, wet mouth. Those velvet lips snug around my thickness, I feel his satin tongue tracing the twitching vein as his large palm closes around the base of my cock. His head bobs up and down, his twinkling brown eyes - rich with amusement - boring into mine, as I feel his throat muscles squeezing my shaft and his fingers playing with my heavy balls. My eyes roll back in rapturous content and my head does slide back on the bed when he purses his lips around the blunt head and again teases the slit with his tongue, my hands tightly clutching the bed sheet on both sides.

I am gonna come, oh God I am gonna come, my mind screams, as I feel shivers of pleasure rushing through my body, my toes curling in anticipation of the longed for release. But before I can reach the culmination, the blissful torment ends, and I cry out as my cock slips out of the warm, slick haven it’s encased in. I feel his hands on my hips, hear his throaty whisper, "Turn over." And before I can figure out what’s happening, I find myself grabbed and swiveled on the bed, being pressed down on my stomach, my cock mashed between my belly and the hard, wrinkled mattress.

"Chak?" I turn my head to look behind me, trying to rise up on my elbows to see where he is but a stinging slap lands on my butt-cheeks, making me yelp in surprise.

"I said, not an inch, Tom," he growls, as I feel my thighs being parted by firm hands.

What the fuck? I feel a surge of irritation bubbling up inside me, what the hell does he think he’s doing, I grit my teeth, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. Except, I feel thick fingers parting my butt-cheeks.

"What the hell are you...aaaagghh...."

My half-hearted protest dies in my throat as I feel the hot, wet, velvety smoothness of his tongue flicker over my opening, bathing my cleft in long, tingling strokes of his tormenting tongue. I feel his gentle fingers smooth over the sting of his slap on my ass-cheeks, as his soft lips plant small, tender kisses all around my puckered button. My hips arch off the bed, my fingers digging into the sheets at my sides, as his tongue dips into the tight opening - once, twice, thrice - until I am crying out in part pleasure, part pain, my crushed cock throbbing with need under me.

Just as I feel it can’t get any more glorious than this, his hot mouth leaves me, his hands squeezing my cheeks once as he leans over me and whispers into my left ear, "Not an inch, Tom," his voice hoarse, "don’t you dare move," and then he’s gone.

Oh fuck, he’s evil, evil, evil, my tormented brain repeats this mantra inside my head, as I lay stunned on my hard bed, shivering in the cool air of my room. Before I can wallow in self-pity, though, I feel the bed dip as he climbs behind me, his teeth grazing my shoulder, his left arm enveloping my waist - urging me to lift my hips.

"Get up," he instructs, his voice husky, as he slips a pillow underneath my hips.

"I thought you said not to move," I reply gruffly, my voice shaking.

I gasp as his tongue dips into my ear, and then moan, as he lies down full length on me, his smooth skin - slippery with sweat - rubbing against my back deliciously. "Nope," he murmurs as he nudges my legs apart with one knee. "NOW you don’t move."

His fingers, slick with something oily, slip between my ass-cheeks.

His hard cock throbs against my inner thighs, as his fingers gently prepare me - first one, then two - slowly stretching me, scissoring inside my tight muscle, lining the smooth walls of my passage with silky oil. I groan, my head lolling forward to rest against the mattress, as I feel his third finger slither its way inside me.

"Please, Chak..." I pant, wiggling my ass, as I feel half his hand punching in and out of my ass, my cock dribbling beneath me.

"You can move now, Tom," he breathes against my neck, slipping his fingers out, his hands settling on my hips, helping me up on my knees, and I feel the head of his cock kiss the edge of my crinkled opening as I brace for impact.

The first thrust is so sudden, so full, and so complete, that I nearly lose my balance, a harsh cry of surprise escaping my throat, but his strong arms hold me close to him, hold me upright. He’s filling me, oh God yes he is, the realization hits me as I feel a sweet, aching fire flickering inside me - deliciously stretching me, making me whole. His thick, long cock is throbbing inside me, buried to the hilt - buried in one sure, savage stroke - and shivers of pleasure run down my whole body - replacing the initial burst of pain - just as I feel his wet tongue licking a path from my ear down to my throat.

"Shhhh... its okay," he groans, rocking his hips, his hands wrapping around my waist, sliding up my chest, playing with my nipples. "Let me love you," he sighs, just as I feel the tip of his tongue slide down my spine, then up, then sideways, then across my shoulder blade, licking and kissing and tracing its way with spit and lips and teeth.

"Fuck me, Chak," I pant, as I feel him slowly, excruciatingly, pulling his thickness out of me. His blunt, thick head latched inside the tight opening of my sphincter, I grab the knob of the headboard in front of me, readying myself, and just as he thrusts back at me, I slam my hips back into him, viciously sucking his cock back inside me.

"Fuck, Tom," he growls, his voice hoarse, as he trembles against me, panting against my neck. "Fuck," he groans.

"That’s right, Chakotay," I cry, my breathing ragged. "I told you to FUCK me, and fuck me HARD."

Please fuck me, my thudding heart says, I need you to purge me, Chak. I need you to make me forget.

"You asked for it," he growls, as he pulls out again, his fingers roughly pinching my hips, and plunges back into me, sending me sprawling on the bed. "And you’re gonna GET it," he grunts.

His knees part my legs further, as he draws his cock out of me and rams back in, crushing me to the bed, knocking my breath out. My fingers claw at the bedding, my heart beating wildly, as his strokes in and out of my tight channel unerringly scrape against my prostate, sending jolts of passionate fire exploding from the center of my soul out in all directions, searing my nerve endings in unending waves of pleasure.

My vision blurring, my breath short, my ears ringing, my whole being concentrates on nothing but the sweet slide of his wonderful thickness against my prostate, and the bruising, punishing, rhythmic slap of his muscled thighs against mine. My hard cock - pressed underneath me - screams for release, as he pulls out almost completely on every stroke out and then plunges deep into me, hard and rough and violent, burying me face first into the mattress. I can hear nothing, feel nothing, know nothing, except for his harsh breathing in my ears as his hard powerful body rages against mine, his skin slippery with the sweet fragrance of his sweat, his teeth sharp against my shoulder.

And so, when I hear him groan my name and feel his teeth sinking into my shoulder, I am helpless except to shudder in ecstasy as a blinding wave of white lightening races out from the center of my being. I feel myself shattering into a thousand pieces, thrashing in pleasure, and then coming back together, as my cock - untouched all this time - jolts and gushes my hot, sticky sperm against my belly, and I hear myself screaming his beautiful name until my throat is ragged. My arms and legs give away as I collapse into a boneless heap, trembling and shuddering with the force of my orgasm, and hear him crying out, "MINE," as he rams his cock inside my clenching muscle - one last time - before he too erupts, filling me with his burning seed.

He falls on top of me, crushing me under his weight, but I am aware of nothing but the glorious buzzing in my veins, and the waves of contented, unbelievable pleasure rolling through me. I hear my hammering heart slowing down its frantic beat to match his, the sound of his breathing lulling me, calming me. It’s all so overwhelming, so absolutely staggering that I feel my breath choking in my throat at the surge of love that fills my heart.

Yes, I am his. He has claimed me. I belong to him now. I feel inscrutable tears of profound relief prick the corners of my eyes.

As if sensing my emotional state, his arms tighten around me protectively, and he holds me close, whispering soothing words in my ears.

My eyes are fluttering close, oblivion approaching fast, and all I am aware of is the soothing slide of his gentle hands up my chest as he nuzzles the back of my neck and kisses my throbbing pulse. A sweet, aching exhaustion is slowly filling my veins, as my dazed brain registers a warm wet cloth tenderly running over my back, cleaning my thighs, my ass, my chest, and my spent cock, but I don’t know how and when and where he got it from. All I hear is his soft voice telling the computer to lower the lights, as he brings up the covers around us and spoons up behind me.

"Go to sleep, Tom," he murmurs.

I love you, Chakotay. I want to tell him, have to tell him. Except I am absolutely, completely insensate with satiation, wholly and totally lithe with lassitude. "Chak ..." I try to speak but my voice sounds strange even to me, hoarse and ragged with passion.

"Shh, its okay," he sighs against my shoulder, his voice tired as well, and it suddenly occurs to me that the ride was equally draining on him. "Later, we’ll talk later," he promises. "Sleep now..."

So in the warm protection of his strong arms around me, I comply.

******


	3. Culmination

**Dark Tunnel 3 - Culmination**

 

It’s the beep beep beep of the alarm that wakes me up. I am tucked in comfortably in the warm bed, the duvet snug around me. A sweet ache throbs in my body, my toes curling in contentment, as memories of what we did last night rivulet back into the crevices of my mind. Sighing happily, I breathe in deeply the salty, masculine scent permeating the sheets and suddenly a sensation of something being out of place hits me.

Something’s wrong, very wrong.

My eyes snap open in panic. The room is dark around me, the air suddenly feeling excessively chilled, as a shiver runs down my length in cold realization.

I am alone. Chakotay’s not here. He should’ve been here, should’ve been spooned up behind me the way he was when I went to sleep, the way he led me to believe he’d be.

My heart clenches, as suddenly the sweet throbbing along my limbs and muscles isn’t the only pain inside me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to calm my breathing but a swirl of pain fills my tightening chest.

I can feel my eyes filling behind my tightly shut lids, as the reality behind my ridiculous expectations dawns on me.

Of course he left. So what if his arms had been tight around me, his smooth chest firm on my back, his voice softly murmuring reassuring words in my ears before I’d drifted off into oblivion? I am Tom Paris, the traitor. What could last night have meant to him, if not just a way to relieve his rage and the burning fire in his veins? It’s not really his fault, not his failing; I can’t possibly blame him. So what if I’d never felt safer than I did last night when he’d taken care of me and wrapped me up in his arms? He isn’t here now and his absence means he finally realized the error of his ways and left discreetly to avoid any further discomfiture between us.

I open my eyes, blinking the unsought tears away, and sit up on the bed, my gaze falling on the chronometer. It’s 0630 hours, my day off - the first of two, in fact. I want to do nothing more than fall back on the pillow and pull the covers over my head, drowning myself in my choking misery. But my body is so used to following the same old schedule of getting up at this time every morning for duty, that I know sleep would elude me no matter how much I want to stay in bed.

I pull the covers off and swing my legs to the side, setting my feet on the carpet and then halt.

My uniform from last night is lying on the chair, the jacket, pants and the turtleneck neatly folded on the seat.

For a moment, I feel mystified.

Did I leave them like this last night?

A streak of confused hope stirs in my heart and I find myself leaping to my feet, dashing to the bathroom door and swinging it open.

It’s empty of course.

Sighing with defeat, depressed beyond anything mere words can explain, I step inside the bathroom, going about my morning rituals almost on autopilot. After I am finished, I come out and grab the shorts lying on the chair, pulling them on. I am tugging the buttons closed as I walk through the door out into the living room and I freeze at the sight before me.

Chakotay, clad in nothing more than his shorts, his shirt pulled over his broad shoulders but left open at the front, is sitting on my couch. His hair mussed, the handsome face pensive with thought, his long legs are spread out in front of him as he leans forward with his elbows resting on his thighs and his chin propped up on his palm, staring out the viewport. The swish of the door closing behind me jerks him out of his thoughts and he looks at me with startled, brown eyes.

I can hear the thudding of my heart inside my chest, guilt and trepidation warring with my senses.

Guilt because I thought he’d left. Just because he wasn’t in bed with me, I figured that he’d simply walked away after fucking my brains out. He came here to sit and ponder over the situation because God knows I have given him loads to think about over the past few hours and, yet, I thought the worst of him.

Still, there’s this fear. This sense of terrible foreboding that he could never feel anything good about me. No matter what happens, no matter what I do, I’ll always be the man who he believed double-crossed him, who until yesterday he called a traitor and a liar.

What direction has his early morning pondering decided my fate in?

"Hey," I say, swallowing hard at the painful lump in my throat.

His answer is instantaneous. I watch, transfixed, as the most beautiful smile I’d ever imagined on his face, breaks on his features.

"Hi," he replies, opening his arms and inviting me inside.

Dazed, my heart beating wildly, I find myself walking to him and sinking into his warm embrace. His soft lips kiss the side of my neck, as he pulls me against his chest and I settle into his lap between his strong thighs, nuzzling into his neck, inhaling his sweet scent.

"You okay?" he breathes into my ear, his warm hands rubbing my back and lingering.

"Yeah," I sigh, wrapping my arms around his waist.

"Sure?" He sounds curious.

"Yes." I look up at him. "Why do you ask?"

"I was afraid… we may have gone a little…out of control last night," he murmurs. "You’re not hurting, are you?" His voice is easy but I can feel him holding his breath in anticipation. He’s concerned.

"Just a little," I say, and feel his muscles tense, so I kiss the smooth skin above his heart in reassurance. "But it feels good, really, really good," A kiss on his warm mouth. "Don’t worry."

He breathes a little easier, his dark eyes shining. "Good," he smiles.

Still there’s something in his eyes that makes my heart lurch inside my chest.

"What are you doing here?" I ask weakly.

"Nothing," A sigh against my cheek. "Just thinking."

I sink my face into his neck, afraid to look into his eyes.

"About what?" I murmur into his skin.

"You…" a pause, "us," a beat, "other things…"

My heart is beating erratically again, no words forthcoming, as trepidation settles in my veins.

"Tom?"

I scrunch my eyes shut, realizing the other shoe is about to be dropped, my face still pressed into the crook of his neck as I try to control my breathing.

"Yeah?"

"I’ll have to report last night’s incident to Tuvok."

I jerk upright in his embrace and stare at him incredulously. Of all the things I expected to hear, this was the last thing on my mind.

He looks at what surely must be astonishment on my face and continues. "It’s a security matter and I should’ve let Voyager’s security team handle it."

"You can’t report to Tuvok," I protest. "I never made a complaint."

"The matter was brought to my attention by one of my own people," he replies calmly.

So this was what he had been thinking about since he woke up.

"I should’ve reported it."

"You took care of it yourself last night. Let it remain that way."

"Funny," he chuckles, almost sarcastically. "You didn’t seem to agree with my course of action last night."

I disentangle myself from his arms in one swift motion and lean back on the seat beside him, staring at him with wary eyes.

"Don’t push this, Chak."

"I was made aware of a security breach in Voyager’s ranks last night. It isn’t right of me to keep this information to myself." He leans forward in the seat, his brow wrinkled. "It goes against all the rules and regulations that the chain of command on this ship follows."

"Funny," I snort, "You didn’t seem to care about Starfleet regulations last NIGHT."

"This NEEDS to be reported, Tom."

"No, it fucking doesn’t." I jump up from the couch, furious, irritated. "I couldn’t care less if you’d caught them in the act yourself. I wasn’t gonna report it last night before you showed up here all mad and furious, and I am not gonna report it NOW."

"Why, Tom?" There’s that subdued, flickering hint of anger again, as he pushes himself up from the couch too and faces me. "You were physically assaulted last night by a bunch of drunkards and yet you want to stay quiet and not bring those bastards to justice." He grits his teeth, "What I want to know is WHY?"

"It seems you’re not quite up-to-date with all the pertinent facts, Commander." I can’t help the coldness seeping in my tone. "I was the one who struck the first punch. And Yosa was the ONLY one who touched me. The rest of them never participated in the so-called attack. And YET, you punished ALL of them."

"I know exactly what happened, Tom," Chakotay continues, as though he hasn’t noticed my deliberate indifference. "You were PROVOKED into attacking Yosa. And the rest of them may not have participated in the assault but they also didn’t STOP Yosa from attacking you. That, in my eyes, is as bad as participating in the assault."

"And so, you went right along and instituted your tried and true Maquis code of discipline by beating the shit out of Yosa, and confining him and the rest of them to their quarters for the next two days WITHOUT food or any medical supplies. And NOW you want to report this entire incident to Tuvok."

"It’s the right thing to DO."

"They’ll throw you in the brig for taking matters into your own hands."

God, why is he making it so hard to talk sense into him?

"They’ll throw ME in the brig for starting the whole thing in the first place."

How can I tell him that he’s the key to all this? That he has to remain stable for me? That I need him just the way he is, for his unflinching, strong presence is the reason for all that went right in this lifetime - and its absence, for what went wrong in the one I left behind.

"We will explain it to them," he goes on, not yet seeing the chaos in my mind, not yet aware of my impending panic. "We’ll tell them how it started. Yosa’s cronies will testify. We HAVE to stop this once and for all, Tom."

How can I tell him that I can’t fucking let anything bad happen to him?

"I don’t WANT to explain anything to them," I yell at him, "I don’t want Yosa’s cronies to testify in front of anyone!"

"Tom…"

But I am not hearing anything more. A sudden wave of hysteria descends and I feel darkness clouding my vision, filling my veins.

"I have no intentions of making a mountain out of mole by reporting anything to Tuvok and practically ANNOUNCING to the rest of the crew that there are people onboard this ship who are after my ass as if I am fucking WHORE."

He looks as if he’s been struck, his eyes widening with shock, but I am too far-gone into my own anguish to notice it.

"This isn’t PRISON, Chak." My eyes are suddenly filled with tears and I blink them furiously to keep them from falling, but fail. "I will not be subjected to the same bullshit here." My throat is clenching, my heart hammering inside my tightening chest. "I don’t belong to anyone here, I will not, I will never accept this…"

"Tom…"

"You can’t make me report." I brush the errant tears away, hating myself for being so weak. "I don’t want to talk to anyone."

I cower back into a corner, my palms flat against the wall, trying to keep myself from splintering into a thousand pieces, wanting nothing more than to fold in and close out everything around me and slipping away into a mental nothingness. I hate him for bringing me to this state, hate myself for being so weak, so powerless, so fucking inadequate.

I’ll never to able to defend him, never be good enough for him – hell, I’d never be good enough for myself - my wailing mind laments, but his arms are suddenly around me and he’s pulling me upright into an embrace. I struggle, trying to push him away, my vision blurring with shameful tears, but he holds me tight against him, shushing me, rubbing my back.

I hate myself, hate being so weak, so insecure, so damn pathetic.

"You can’t make me do this, Chak," I cry, my voice muffled against the side of his neck, as he leads me back to the couch. I feel his warm fingers gently coaxing my hair off my forehead, his palms cradling my face, his thumb brushing the tears off my face.

"I won’t, Tom," he says, his voice strained with emotion, yet somehow reassuring, as I keep my eyes closed and listen to the soft, husky, soothing tones. "No one will make you do anything you don’t want to do. I am sorry. You don’t have to report to anyone, you have my word."

 

I sag against him, suddenly drained of all energy. He cradles me in his arms, his hands rubbing my back, kneading my shoulders, coaxing my tense muscles into relaxing. He says nothing, giving me time, letting me get my bearings again. For some reason I feel content in the silence, listening to the steady sound of him taking in air inside his lungs, feeling the warm puff against my right ear as he softly exhales.

In and out, calm and steady, his warm breath fans my face. I start to feel almost drowsy, relishing the feel of his arms holding me close, holding me secure.

"Tom."

I stiffen as he finally breaks the stillness.

"You still need to return your combadge to Tuvok. It’s broken."

I feel him tense at my silence so I tighten my arms around his waist.

"I will, I’ll return it to him and get a new one, don’t worry."

"What will you say to him?" His tone shifts again, "He will ask how it got smashed and ended up with a Starfleet issue footprint on its surface that doesn’t match YOUR shoes."

I take a shuddering breath, feeling tightness invading my chest again.

"I’ll come up with some excuse, Chak, leave it to me, I can handle it."

"Oh, I am sure you can."

There’s something in his tone that is too bitter, too accusatory, to be ignored. My eyes fly open and I pull my arms from around his body, trying to push myself off him but he grips my shoulders hard, not letting me move.

"Let me go," I snap at him, my fingers curling, trying to claw his arms off mine but he only squeezes my shoulders in response, pulling me closer to him. "Let me off!"

"NO!" he snarls. "You will NOT run away this time. TALK to me, dammit."

"Talk about WHAT?" I grit my teeth. "I am tired of this, Chak. Tired of making you mad at me all the time."

"I am not angry at YOU, Tom." He suddenly seems tired, his face anguished, "Not you at all…" He swallows a lump in his throat.

I shift to the next seat again, a strange flutter in my stomach and peer at him curiously.

"Then who, Chak?"

He lowers his eyes to his lap, his hands falling to his thighs, and takes a shaky breath before looking up at me. "I am so pissed, Tom, so upset that this happened right under my nose and I didn’t know anything about it." His brown eyes are suddenly moist, clouded with conflict. "I can’t believe I let this happen - they were Maquis, all my people - and I couldn’t stop them from touching you."

I feel something turn inside my chest.

All these waves of anger, of pain and scorn and hostility, that I feel drifting off him, are all directed inwards - at himself - not me. The pensiveness I saw on his face when I walked into this room this morning, catching him brooding all by himself. Last night’s rage aimed at Yosa and his men, the frenzy and strife within himself when he interrogated me about what happened. The despair, the struggle - in his eyes, on his face, in his heart. All of it boils down to one lonely helpless emotion.

Guilt.

He wouldn’t stop looking for you, Torres suddenly speaks up in my head, he barricaded himself in his room, he blamed himself for not being alert enough, she says, losing you devastated him and you’re just like him, Paris, she concludes, you’re just like Chakotay.

Just like Chakotay.

Am I? Am I just like Chakotay?

But that isn’t true. Couldn’t be true. He is an honorable, principled man who was fighting a war for his homeland. He lost half his family to the Cardassians and resigned his commission to join a freedom struggle against a foreign military occupation of his home world. And me? I was but a mercenary, someone looking simply to pay off his bar-tab, someone looking for a fight against the wretched Starfleet. The Starfleet that had taken all my dreams and aspirations of becoming one of the greatest pilots ever, and torn them into shattered, sorry little shards.

Like broken glass.

Leaving a bloody mess in its wake.

How can anyone compare me to him? How can I be like him in any way?

He’s an honest man, who fought for a noble cause. I am a liar, a loser, who got thrown into prison on his first fucking flight for the Maquis. There’s simply no possible comparison between the two of us, is there?

Yet here he is, blaming himself for what happened even though he had no way of knowing, no way of stopping it from occurring. Drowning himself in swells of needless guilt and self-recrimination for no reason whatsoever.

And here I am. Rolling over the same burning, aching coals of self-pity and hatred. Beating around the same bush. Marching to the same damned tune. Hating myself. Hurting myself. Floating in the same stifling waters of self-disgust and aversion. Blaming myself for all the wrongs that occurred in my life for there was never anyone else to blame.

Guilty as charged.

Just like Chakotay.

But it was always my fault, wasn’t it? Who else could I blame? I did lie to Starfleet. I did join the Maquis to pay them back. I was a mercenary. A drunkard. And I did lose out on my first flight. But, God, I never meant to lose Chakotay on the stairs at Ocampa that cursed day. I still blame myself, don’t I? I’ve blamed myself for twelve long months, crying myself to sleep, living in that hellhole.

The fact that I am sitting here right now, looking at Chakotay - an alive Chakotay - means I’ve been given a second chance. A chance to break this vicious circle. To end all the guilt. Once and for all. Chakotay was never to blame for my getting caught by Starfleet. Chakotay wasn’t to blame for last night’s attack on me. I have to end this. Now.

And if I can convince Chakotay of that, then perhaps I can convince myself of having a little faith in my own innocence too.

I cover his right hand with mine and as he looks up at me with pained eyes, I weave my fingers through his and touch his face with my right hand.

"It wasn’t your fault, Chak." I dip my fingers into his thick hair and revel in its soft silkiness. "Stop blaming yourself."

"But, Tom, I was responsible for your safety."

"And you have fulfilled your promise the best way you could," I cut him off quickly. "What happened last night could’ve been prevented if I’d turned around and walked away from the scene. I am partly to blame for getting involved too."

He frowns defiantly. "Yosa instigated the whole thing. I know what he did, how he riled you up. They told me what happened, all the bullshit he said to you. Everything that goes wrong in your life isn’t your fault, Tom, and I will not listen to you putting the blame on yourself for things that you had no control over."

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at his words. I look into his dark eyes, bright with emotion, his face portraying the struggle within him. Isn’t it unbelievable how two people can come up with the same conclusions at the same time, while sitting at opposite ends of the spectrum, without being aware of it?

Just like Chakotay. Am I?

I trace the line of his jaw with my index finger, "And I will not listen to you putting the blame on yourself for things YOU had no control over, Chak."

"But…"

"No buts." I cradle his face in both hands, his skin warm and fragrant, "I will stop blaming myself if you stop blaming YOURSELF, Chak," my thumbs strokes his strong jaw, his soft skin lightly covered with early morning stubble, "It’s as simple as that."

His brown eyes shine with slow realization. "Tom…"

Instead of answering him with words, I tip his face up as I lean over to cover his lips with mine. With a sigh, he parts his lips and my tongue slides inside his mouth, meeting its mate with quiet reverence. His mouth is sizzling hot, his lips like velvet, as our tongues slide and curl around the other, taking time to reacquaint ourselves to each other’s taste and feel. The kiss grows languorously, our lips and tongues dancing the seductive dance of spit and heat and breathless gasps, as the sharpest of teeth nip gently at quivering flesh. I slide my fingers into his hair, tilting his face sideways to deepen the kiss, and moan as I feel him stroking the roof of my mouth with his relentless tongue, his own moan rumbling back into my mouth.

A delightful humming starts in my temple, my nerves buzzing, my heart racing, as I taste his sweet mouth and revel in the muskiness of his scent. He kisses me sweetly and deeply, his lips moving over mine with quiet determination, before his fingers slide into the curls at the base of my head, rubbing lingeringly, and he gently, reluctantly, disengages his mouth from mine.

I groan in disappointment but he strokes my hair, his fingers soothing and tender, and tucks my face into the crook of his neck. I breathe in his tang, kissing his flushed skin – sweaty with desire – and try to control my breathing. I hear him doing the same, breathing raggedly, as I tighten my hold on him, my hands slipping around his waist, my fingers tracing his spine and caressing his strong, muscular back.

"Tom." He shivers at my ministrations and kisses the top of my head. "I need to talk to you, babe."

I rub my earning morning beard over his chest, making him shiver again.

"About what, Chak?"

There’s a pause, an ever so slight one, before he slips his fingers around my biceps, stilling my hands, and I feel a kiss land softly on my forehead.

"About the shell."

I barely stifle a groan as my heart once again fills with dismay. The shell. Oh God, will my torment never end?

I look up at him, my heart in my throat. "I didn’t steal it from you, Chak."

He looks deeply into my eyes, as if assessing me, his face thoughtful and serious. His eyes are deep and dark and beautiful, but my heart beats ever so frantically, my insides tight with turmoil.

How will I explain it to him? How the hell will I explain the shell to him? I am back at square one, back where I was last night, back where I was two damn months ago. This man may have fucked me through the bed only a few hours ago but nothing has really changed, has it? He’s still suspicious. I still haven’t come clean about everything to him.

How CAN I ever come clean? He’ll think I am crazy.

"I know, Tom."

I look at him with a start, confusion shrouding my senses as I notice an expression of enigmatic understanding settle on his face.

"You know? How?"

"It’s different," he breathes evenly. "The shell, Tom, it’s changed."

"It’s your shell, Chak," I say to him, perplexed at his words. "YOUR SHELL. What are you saying?"

"It’s packed with sand."

I blink at him. Sand? So--

"I know you did a good job trying to clean it up, Tom," he continues, uninterrupted, "But there were still some granules that you couldn’t quite reach even with the sonic-brush. You used the wrong size." His gaze penetrates mine. "I suggest you use size 3-c the next time you try to clean a seashell from the inside out."

Sonic brush? Size 3-c? He isn’t mad? Instead he’s giving me lessons on shell cleaning? What is going on here?

He looks at my duped expression and frowns. "Tom?" He shakes my arm.

"Aren’t all seashells packed with sand?" I offer, baffled.

The corners of his mouth twitch as if a smile is fighting to emerge, a notion that baffles me even more, but he instantly schools his expression into one of sobriety.

"Not this shell, Tom," he says. "It was always squeaky clean, had no sand, nothing inside it, from the time it was given to me three years ago. It also seems a little... faded now, some of its shine’s missing, as if it’s been BURIED under sand for a long time." He looks into my eyes, "I find that very strange."

My mouth opens, trying to form words, but nothing comes out. What can possibly come out anyway? I have no idea what to say to him.

He studies me for a few seconds, his gaze appraising yet surprisingly without any hint of previous accusation, and takes a deep breath.

"I did a multifarious, sub-molecular analysis of the sand granules I collected from inside the shell, Tom, and found something interesting," Chakotay informs me like a geology professor giving a lecture. "The decomposed organic matter found in the soil sample is not indigenous to the original habitat of this seashell. This shell originates from the North American continent on Earth, the sandy beaches of San Diego to be exact; but the microorganisms I found in the soil do not originate from the area this class of Nautilus lives in. The sand is not from North America. It isn’t even from Earth."

His eyes are shining, as if he’s close to solving a big mystery, which I suppose he is. I am too flabbergasted to interrupt him now, too amazed at his deducing abilities.

"It DOES however match the soil sample I collected from one of the planets here in the delta quadrant in the Sinkari sector last month." He pauses to take a breath and tilts his head to his right, his eyes boring into mine. "You have any idea how could that be?"

"You’re collecting and analyzing delta quadrant dirt?" I blurt out.

He sighs. "Yes, Tom. Remember that planet we visited where we found signs of an ancient civilization? Signs of buildings, graves, bones, we even found traces of an ancient irrigation system. I spent a lot of time down there, collecting samples, studying the ruins, trying to analyze their history."

"But why? We’re in the delta quadrant," I say, still not quite understanding his passion. "These ruins have nothing to do with OUR history."

He looks at me with surprise, his eyes widening, and then a slow smile breaks on his face. "I am a paleontologist, Tom. Study of past geologic periods based on fossil remains is part of my job as a scientist." His eyes are twinkling, his face animated. "A scientist’s job is not confined only to his roots. It was an AMAZING opportunity for me. Just imagine - I was the first human ever to set my eyes on those ruins. Could there be anything more blessed than that?"

I take a ragged breath, absorbing everything he’s told me - my eyes pinned by his, unable to break free.

A paleontologist.

A new side of him. One I never saw before. One I never even heard of before.

I have known Chakotay the warrior; the Maquis renegade; the Starfleet Commander and the impeccable First Officer onboard Voyager.

I even met Chakotay the beautiful, passionate, ravishing lover last night. The one who got under my skin in a way no one else ever did before.

But a scientist? He keeps unfolding like a flower. How many other things are there that I don’t know? I suddenly realize I know very little about him. I never got a chance to know him before.

"I didn’t know you were a paleontologist, Chak."

He smiles a sad smile. "That part of me didn’t get out too much during the war. When you’re fighting for your life, fighting for the lives of those you care for; when you’re fighting to honor those who lost their lives for the land and in the name of the cause, your own hopes and dreams, all of a sudden, seem so… inconsequential."

His eyes are suddenly moist, the glittering, dark depths filling with years of pain and loss and anguish. Feeling a jolt of pain knife through my gut at his hurt, I reach out with my hand to touch his neck and feel his pulse throbbing, hot and furious.

Honor. He fought in the name of honor. Fought for the lives of those he cared for.

I trace the line of his throat with my questing fingers, reaching his chin, sliding up to rest on his cheek.

"Chak."

My thumb lightly strokes his lips, as I try to convey my feelings, my silent support, through the simple touch.

He sighs and looks at me, his hand reaching up to cover mine. My heart speeds up as he threads his fingers through mine, gently squeezing, and then lowers both hands to his lap, keeping the fingers entwined. An inscrutable expression passes his face, one of melancholy and pain and inner disquiet, one that makes my heart skip a beat in alarm, and then once again he schools his face into composure.

Whereas--

"So, Tom." He looks straight into my eyes. "A seashell, that originates from Earth, is found with you, packed with sand that when analyzed is found to be filled with organic matter originating from a system of planets in the delta quadrant. Any idea how that came to be?"

Whereas I was a mercenary. Looking to pay off my bar-tab. Nothing more.

I quell the surge of apprehension and look into his eyes.

"Maybe," I say, "maybe, its because the shell WAS buried under sand on one of these planets in the delta quadrant."

"Did you bury it?"

"No, Chak."

He maintains eye contact. "Who gave you the shell, Tom?"

He’ll never buy it. He’ll think I am out of my mind. Or worse that I am still lying. But I have to come clean about this. I have to come clean about this at some point. Even though there’s a possibility that he will probably never consider any word that comes out of my mouth as reliable, will never consider it as something he can trust.

Even at the risk of rejection, I have to give it a chance - once and for all.

"Torres," I say.

"B’Elanna?" His brow wrinkles, his eyes probing, then smoothes in acknowledgement. "That would explain her fingerprints."

Fingerprints? That must have been one hell of a multifarious scan, Chak.

"No, not B’Elanna." Now that I have jumped into the fire, I can’t have him confusing the issue, can I? "TORRES."

His eyes narrow in uncertainty. "There’s a difference?"

"Oh yeah," I snort. "B’Elanna hates my guts. Torres on the other hand was my friend. Though I don’t understand why? I fucked up her life down there too."

"Fucked up whose life and down where?" he asks, confused. "What are you talking about?"

I swallow at the tightness in my throat. "When I…" I struggle with the words, wetting my dry lips with a flick of my tongue. "When I… failed you at Ocampa."

"Failed me?" His bafflement is profound. "How?"

"At the stairs, Chak."

"You… you saved my life at the stairs, Tom. How did you fail?"

"Oh I saved you this time." I look down at our linked hands, my fingers suddenly clammy and find them shaking slightly. "But I… I lost you the last time."

There is a slight pause and I steal a look at his face and feel my heart squeezing in consternation. He looks undeniably disturbed, his expression one of extreme bewilderment, his eyes filled with conflict and confusion.

And why wouldn’t he be? I am testing the limits of his patience and understanding. I try to imagine how I’d feel if I were in his position. Would I be as accommodating, as eager to learn all the dark details of my delirium, as he is?

I am not so sure.

"I don’t understand, Tom," he says.

"I know, Chak," I sigh.

"Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?"

"You’ll think I am crazy."

"Tom…"

"If you don’t already, that is."

"I don’t think you’re crazy but you’re surely driving ME nuts."

My heart speeds at his desperation. He needs to know. I am aware of that. But how do I assure my panicky heart which is hell bent on believing that this is the last straw, the last chance, the last conversation, that he will certainly, absolutely, surely, haul me to the sickbay on charges of lunacy the minute I am done relating my tale?

"Chak…"

"Why don’t you start from the beginning, Tom?" He squeezes my hand, his grip unrelenting, his eyes remarkably warm and reassuring. "Try me."

So, focusing on his steady, searching gaze - the warmth in the glittering, dark depths somehow calming my staggering heartbeat - I relent.

He listens.

I tell him everything, right from the beginning. The stairs and my failure. Kazon and Voyager’s fate. Lovaugim and the whole horror of our existence down there. The failure of the Maquis/Starfleet amalgam. The nightmares and my sighting of the shell around his neck in them.

It’s as if I can’t keep anything from him. I have lost any control I held over my words, my reflexes, and my thoughts. Everything that ever bruised me, that ever pierced my heart like a thorn, making me hurt, making me bleed, is out in the open now.

Well, almost everything. I leave out the bit about the various scattered incidents with the Yosa-types down there. I also leave out the names of those who were not exactly on my side on Lovaugim. I don’t want any repeats of last night occurring. I’ll just have to manage things with the Maquis on my own, without letting Chakotay get involved in any way.

The rest, however, I relate to him without any qualms.

I speak until my voice is hoarse and until my vision is clouded and until it hurts my chest and my head to speak because the memories are too damn painful.

I watch the expression on his face go through gradual changes. As each piece of information is digested, his face changes masks from incredulity to clarity to skepticism to bewilderment.

And then, slowly, gradually, a strange thing happens.

As the words flow out of me, the tension dissipates. The weight from my chest, my shoulders, my mind, lifts.

I see the pain, the perplexity in his eyes and know that I am taking down my burden by laying it on him. Though, before I can do or say anything to ease his discomfort, he gets up from the couch and goes to the replicator to retrieve something. He turns around with two glasses of water and a stack of paper napkins and as he sits down next to me, he pulls me closer to clean my face with the napkins.

This is when I realize that I have been crying. I don’t know when and how I started. I certainly didn’t do it intentionally and it’s happened without my being aware of it.

"Shh, its okay," he murmurs, running his fingers through my hair. "I am here with you."

He lets me cry just as he let me speak. And after I have gulped down the water from the glass he holds up to me, he lets me lean on him too - rubbing my back, stroking my hair, holding me close.

We stay like this for a while, arms locked, chins resting on shoulders, hearts beating in tandem.

I want to talk to him. I want to ask him what he thinks of all that I said. I want to know if he thinks I am crazy yet. Does he think I am delusional or deranged? Does he still think I am lying? I need to ask him.

Yes, I am afraid to know what he thinks. I am afraid that this will be the end, the closure of all points of happiness in this brief respite I’ve got with him.

I am very afraid.

But I need to know. I HAVE to know.

I feel him stir, his breathing evening out, as a kiss lands on my neck, and hold my breath as he pulls away from me. I look into his eyes, searching for any sign of rejection or acknowledgement or reconciliation, but he gives nothing away. He holds my gaze, his eyes warm, yet his face remains absolutely calm and neutral.

Utterly unruffled.

"I am hungry," he declares. "Aren’t you hungry too?" He looks up to check the chronometer. "See? It’s almost eight twenty. It’s breakfast time. Let’s eat."

I am quite sure my bewilderment is apparent on my face but he either doesn’t notice it or chooses to ignore it. Instead, he leads me to my own dining table and, pulling out a chair, settles me down. He, then, proceeds to replicate a huge breakfast of waffles, orange juice, assorted fruits and coffee, rounding it off with a serving of scrambled eggs for me.

I want to ask him if he thinks I am crazy. I need to know if he thinks I am lying.

He sits down across from me.

"Chak…"

He looks into my eyes, his gaze steady yet noncommittal. "Eat, Tom," he says, patting my hand, and digs into his waffles.

I look at him for a second and then down at my breakfast and, with a sigh, I pick up the fork.

I eat.

 

 

Taste buds are funny things. When they agree with the food prepared and consumed, the tiny nerve filaments conveying the electric impulses to the brain can be cause for boundless savory delights for your oral and tactile sensory perceptions.

Yet when they don’t, they - helped by your unfailing olfactory senses - can turn your stomach.

Literally.

Insert Neelix in the equation. Talaxian male, of obvious humanoid origins; he apparently has a constant, unending urge to please everyone around him. At any damn cost.

It’s something else that the said cost is usually paid by the unfortunate ‘others’ around him, but of course that is the least of his worries.

The other day he tried to make fudge cream cake with burnt sugar topping for Harry. We didn’t know what we were walking into when he cheerily sat us down at the table and scurried into the galley to bring out the cake. Suddenly, the whole messhall filled with choking smoke and as he set the masterpiece down on the table in front of us, we came to an astounding realization.

He had actually used a mini flame-torch to burn the topping crisp. It was scorched black. Fuming with acrid smoke.

Yet Neelix, being the way he is, still urged us to go on and try it.

Harry, the eternally nice guy and unwilling to hurt the Talaxian’s feelings, tried to pry the topping away to get to the inner layers of the cake. Only to have his fork sink into slices of candied leola root.

I am convinced that Talaxians, more so than the other assorted species of the delta quadrant, have an entirely different set of taste buds and sensory organs. There’s simply no other way to make sense of all the culinary monstrosities he has served us in the short time we’ve been in the delta quadrant.

"Here comes, Megan," Harry whispers. "Shit, Jenny isn’t with her today."

I quit stabbing the yellow glob in my plate and look up to see the friskier of the Delaney twins walk into the messhall.

"What difference does that make?" I grin at him. "They’re identical twins and I bet that little inflection Jenny has in her voice would become insignificant once the lights are off."

"Very funny, Tom." Harry rolls his eyes. "I haven’t thought that far yet."

"That’s the problem, Harry," I say, putting my fork down. "You think too much."

"And you don’t think at all, do you?" he grimaces, as he swallows a mouthful of his lunch. "By the way, where the heck were you yesterday? Both the Delaneys were at Sandrine’s and I tried looking for you but you were holed up in your quarters the whole day. You forgot the promise you made that we will double date the twins, didn’t you?" He looks at me enquiringly. "And you weren’t answering the comm. OR the chime. What WERE you doing?"

Double Date? Shit. Sorry, Har, but no can do.

I push the plate away. "Cleaning my quarters."

He raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "It took you the whole DAY to clean your quarters?"

"Yep, they were really dirty."

"I don’t believe you."

I take a deep breath and look at him, watching his eyes narrowing in scrutiny. What to tell him? That I wasn’t really cleaning my room after all? That I was busy acquainting myself with the finer things in life by spending the day in bed with Voyager’s First Officer?

Or that I have NO idea where I really stand with the said First Officer right now because he chose to clam up after I poured my heart out to him?

Before I can say anything, though, the swishing slide of the messhall doors opening diverts our attention. We watch B’Elanna walk inside and halt for a moment, scanning the room for whomever she came here looking for. And then her eyes rest on the two of us and it occurs to me that it was us she was looking for, as she makes a beeline for our table.

She flicks a quick glance at me before resting her eyes on Harry.

"Hey Starfleet," she greets him, with the nickname she has reserved for him. "Remember the computer core modifications I was telling you about? I really want to get started on those as soon as possible. Do you mind if we discussed this now?"

"Not at all, Maquis," Harry replies, pulling up a chair for her. "Have a seat."

She sits down but not before I am treated to the same half-peek directed at me before she focuses her attention onto Harry.

What’s with the covert glances? I feel suddenly uncomfortable.

I sit between them, listening to them discuss the technical details of things that make neither head nor tail to me and, for some ungraspable reason, it leaves me a little restless.

I feel my brow wrinkle as I look at her with averted eyes and try to place the feeling.

Its nothing apparent, nothing too open I guess, just this below the surface feeling that something is out of place. Outwardly she is engrossed in her discussion, but her body language is a little off. She seems on edge, as if her mind is on something other than the reason she said she wanted to talk to Harry. He doesn’t notice it though. But then again, Harry doesn’t know her the way I do.

I pick up the glass of water and take a sip from it, trying to tune out their technobabble. Today is my second off day, as is theirs, as is most other people’s. Though it’s not unusual to find Harry and B’Elanna holed away in a corner of the messhall, discussing work problems in their off-times. I personally like to relax on my days off and find it hard to listen to them going on and on about plasma discharge or warp core diagnostics at the best of times. And today--well, today is a whole different matter.

Today, I have way too much on my mind.

I look up as the doors slide open to admit someone and my shoulders slump in disappointment when its not who I want it to be. I don’t know why I am disappointed though. Chakotay very clearly told me he’d be busy the whole day in meetings with the captain. Something about repair teams and energy conservation issues or the like. He and the captain are apparently another two people who like to take their work home, or rather who go to work on off-days.

Chakotay.

He’s another enigma I can’t make either head or tail of at the moment.

Beautiful. Thoughtful. Gentle.

A considerate man. A skilled lover. The best I’ve ever had.

I’ve been ruined for the rest of my life. He made love to me, listened to me, took care of me and, then, made love to me all over again.

I am still sore. And it feels great.

Yet, there’s something still not quite right. I can feel it like a thorn in my heart, stabbing at my soul, twisting my gut, confusing me. A thorn of uncertainty. Of doubt and needless pain and perplexity.

He won’t talk to me about Lovaugim.

I don’t know why. I told him everything that I could and what I didn’t tell him, I know he figured out from my reaction afterwards. I saw the look on his face, when the mask was not yet back in place, and know he felt my pain and grief. If for nothing else but the fact that talking about it wounded me and filled me with anguish.

And then something changed. His body language, his whole demeanor, somehow shifted. His attitude wasn’t negative in any way. He was kind, warm and patient, spending the whole day with me, talking to me, loving me. He talked about everything else to me, from the crew’s reaction to Sandrine’s to the last M-Class planet we visited in the Sirkani sector to Neelix’ cooking.

It’s just that -- it’s just that he won’t talk about Lovaugim. He didn’t acknowledge anything I said about that planet. Not once. It’s as if he didn’t hear anything I told him about my other life, as if I poured my heart out to a brick wall. It’s as if what I said didn’t matter. As if I didn’t matter

That hurt. A lot.

I don’t know what to make of it. Even after spending a whole day with him, in the most intimate of situations, Chakotay’s still a mystery to me. What is he thinking? Did he feel sorry for me? Was yesterday just a case of charity, a pity fuck? Why didn’t he talk to me about what I said? Did he think I was making it up? If yes, why the hell didn’t he bring it out in the open with me?

What is he going to tell me tonight? That it’s over? Over before it even gets a chance to properly get off the ground, whatever the heck it is that we’ve found together.

Is it over? I feel terrible despair enveloping my whole being at the bleak thought. Is it? Can I survive it if it is?

I don’t think I can.

I don’t think I want to.

I gulp more water, trying to ease off my tightening throat and realize the conversation on my table has died down. I look at Harry and B’Elanna and find them staring at me with identical expressions on their faces. Concern.

Now what?

"Tom, are you alright?" Harry speaks first, his eyes troubled. "You look really upset about something. What were you thinking there?"

"Yeah, Paris, you look like you lost your best friend," B’Elanna says, addressing me for the first time since sitting down.

There’s an edge to her voice that irritates me and I whip my head around to look at her, a sharp retort ready on my tongue, only to halt at the expression on her face. Her eyes are surprisingly warm and compassionate, shining with a concerned glimmer. I blink at the unexpected softness on her face.

What does she know?

I take a deep breath to ease my thudding heart.

"Nothing’s wrong, Har. I’m fine." I look at Harry, smiling, and then turn my eyes to B’Elanna. "You must be mistaken, B’Elanna, since my best friend is sitting right here with me."

She maintains the eye contact, her dark eyes probing mine, unwilling to back down. I stare at her for a few still seconds, letting her stare back at me and then pull back the chair.

"Are we through?" I ask Harry as I stand up, and he nods, looking a bit baffled at the interaction he just observed across the table. I choose to ignore his puzzlement for now.

We grab our empty trays and take them to the counter for recycling.

It’s as we’re listening to Neelix’ spirited exchange about some new fruit he is growing in the hydroponics bay and trying not to cringe at his promise to bake a tart with it, that I catch sight of someone in the corridor through the closing doors of the messhall. I mutter a quick excuse to my companions and hurry out of the messhall without looking back at either of them.

"KEN!" I call out, as the doors close behind me.

Dalby freezes at the junction of the corridor he was about to turn in and I watch his shoulders tense slightly. He slowly turns around to face me, as I catch up with him, regarding me a bit warily.

"Hello," I greet him, as I reach his side. "How are you doing?"

He looks surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting any pleasantries. His demeanor is a bit guarded, as if he doesn’t quite know what to expect from me.

"I am fine," he replies, looking a bit uneasy.

I take a deep breath. "Ken, I just wanted to thank you, for the other night."

He stares at me for a second; his face a careful mask of indifference, and then shrugs as if it’s no big deal. "Don’t mention it."

A feeling of déjà vu sinks on me at this eerily familiar gesture, at his apparent unawareness of its familiarity. I swallow at the unintentional lump that forms in my throat.

How similar is he to the Dalby I knew on the planet?

I look into his dark eyes. "I just want you to know that what you did that night, it meant a lot to me. Thank you very much."

He stares at me, his eyes assessing me, testing me, and then he apparently comes to a favorable conclusion because, finally, a slight smile appears at the corners of his lips.

"You’re welcome," he says, and then his brow furrows a little. "Are YOU alright?" he asks.

I smile back at him, strangely pleased at his concern. "Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks."

He seems content with that. "Good," he nods. "I have to go now. I’ll see you later."

At my acknowledgement, he turns around and walks away. I watch him until he disappears around a bend and then turn back around to see Harry coming out of the messhall, walking towards me. B’Elanna is a few paces behind him.

"Was that Dalby?" Harry asks, an incredulous expression on his face.

"Yes, it was."

"I didn’t know you talked to him."

I look at him carefully, aware of the reputation Dalby has.

"Why not?"

"Well," he shrugs, "Everyone says he’s a jerk."

I snort as we make our way towards the turbolift. "Well, everyone is obviously full of it. Dalby is a nice guy underneath all that antagonism, Harry." I look into my friend’s eyes. "You know better than to listen to other people’s opinion about someone, right?"

Harry looks at me, awareness unfolding on his features.

"I guess you’re right," he looks sheepish. "I am sorry, that’s not how I meant it."

I smile at him, sensing B’Elanna’s eyes on me again. She heard the exchange between the two of us and now that same knowing gaze is directed at me. I try to focus on Harry, though.

"It’s alright, Har." We step into the lift and the door closes behind us. "I knew that."

Harry gives his deck as the destination. His quarters were the place we had planned to converge at, previously. Apparently B’Elanna concurs with that.

I take a deep breath as the lift starts to move and almost jump when my combadge chirps.

"Chakotay to Paris."

I gulp as I look at my two friends from the corners of my eyes and punch my badge. "Paris here."

"Lieutenant," Chakotay’s voice is soft, his tone almost playful. "I hope you haven’t forgotten our pool date in Sandrine’s tonight."

I feel my face getting hot but I can’t stop the smile from emerging on my face.

"No sir, I haven’t."

"Good."

I can hear the smile in his voice.

"I am busy for the next three hours but I’ll see you in holodeck two at 1800 hours precisely. Tonight the dinner’s on you, Tom, you exhausted my account the last time."

I keep my eyes firmly locked on the closed door in front of me, my face burning, my heart thudding, as I try not to look at my two companions whose eyes I can feel boring into my frame.

"You got it, Commander."

"See you. Chakotay out."

The comm. ends and I take a deep breath before looking at Harry, who is looking even more flabbergasted than before, and B’Elanna, whose annoyingly knowing stare has upped several degrees in intensity.

"What?" I say.

"Exhausted his account the LAST time?" Harry squeaks.

"Yeah, so?"

"What last time?" he demands. "Since when have you started going on pool dates with Commander Chakotay?"

"Since night before last, Harry."

I keep my face composed, my voice calm, even though my heart is beating way too fast. I really don’t want to talk about this to anyone right now.

"I thought he HATED you, Tom." Harry is adamant.

I chuckle at him. "I told you, you think too much, Harry."

"Why, Paris, you’re glowing," B’Elanna drawls, interrupting the two of us. "What’s your secret?"

I look at her then and find her eyes dancing with amusement. They’re warm. Understanding. And that makes me feel lighter somehow. I don’t know what she knows about Chakotay and I, but she knows Chakotay, and that’s enough.

"If I told you," I deadpan. "It wouldn’t be a secret anymore now, would it?"

I see the corners of her mouth twitch and chuckle to myself.

"Tom?" Harry asks sharply, clearly noticing he has missed something important.

Just then, the lift halts and the doors open. "C’mon, Harry," I smile, as I step out of the car. "Lets go. You promised you’d show me your clarinet."

"But, TOM," his voice is shrilly and impatient, but I am not bothered anymore.

My mind is on more important things.

My mind is on tonight.

The pool date.

With Chakotay.

 

 

Bronze and gold.

Russet hues of glittering sunshine. Slowly cascading into my line of vision. Floating down from the golden-black skies above.

I never saw him in this light before.

Yes, he inhabited my thoughts, my senses, and my sensibilities for way too long. He’s been my pain and desire, my love and loathing, my hope and despair.

My beacon of hope at the end of the dark tunnel that was my life.

Tan colored t-shirt snugly hugging muscular chest and torso. Blue jeans that cling to a strong ass and long athletic legs. Eyes twinkling, smiles ready, laughter abound.

I am sure none of the crew have ever seen him in this light either.

To say that Sandrine’s denizens were astounded, when Chakotay showed up at the bar all dressed to kill and joined me at my table, would be an understatement.

Pissed off Maquis floundering in confusion. Dumbfounded Fleet guys unsure about the goings on. A half-curious Vulcan Chief of Security watching from afar - I bet the Captain will get the full report on everything that happened in Sandrine’s tonight - calmly noting, calculating, and analyzing. Harry as shocked this evening as he was in the turbolift this afternoon.

All watching from a distance, wondering what the heck changed in the last two days. Only a handful actually having a clue.

B’Elanna quietly observing the whole drama unfolding from her table. I wonder how much she knew.

Of course, Chakotay seemed oblivious to everyone’s scrutiny. He apparently walked into Sandrine’s tonight after shedding his First Officer shroud and was determined to enjoy shooting pool with me, regardless of who seemed flabbergasted at his choice of company. Not to say he wasn’t aware of his professional standing among the crew. He was. Very much so. He kept a friendly, respectful distance from me in front of everyone but, despite my constant fears, there was no change in his under-the-surface affection for me.

He kept his hands off me but the heat in his gaze still filled me with endless warmth.

I wondered how to broach the subject I’d been dying to talk to him about all day. I needed to know. Despite his avoidance, despite his apparent inability to accept the validity of my words, to embrace the truth behind them, I still needed to ask him.

I needed to know whether he believed me or not.

He put up a good fight but I still beat him at pool. Five times out of five.

Apparently, he wasn’t as oblivious to the distraction around him, and to the commotion within him, as I’d thought at first.

He asked me to his quarters after the game. We discreetly left our astounded audience behind.

That was almost two hours ago.

"There’s one called ‘Oh Shit’."

I set the pack down in front of Chakotay, smiling as his left eyebrow arches.

"Although it’s normally played with four people, but we can adapt it for two."

"Oh Shit? That’s the name of the game? You’re kidding."

"No, seriously," I grin, as I sift the cards. "The object is for each player to bid the number of tricks he thinks he can take from each hand, then to take exactly that many; no more and no fewer," I drawl. "Besides bidding more than you can handle would probably get you in a little bit of trouble…"

He snorts, mockingly hitting me on the leg with his left foot, as he picks up the tall glass from the carpet and takes a sip of the fruit punch he’s served us both. He is sitting down on the carpet of his living room across from me, his back resting against the chair that lies facing the viewport, and his legs sprawled out casually in front of him.

I lean against the foot of the couch opposite and continue quoting the rules from the open data terminal at my side, smiling at his amusement. "Also, points are awarded only for making the bid exactly and are deducted for missing the bid, either over or under."

"If you think you can invent some funny little card game with a convoluted set of fake rules and then thrash me at it the way you did at pool today," he chuckles, "then you, Lieutenant, are woefully mistaken."

"If you think you can’t handle such complex rules, Commander, then we can play something easier, you know," I tease him.

"EASIER?" He shakes his head, smiling. "After beating you at poker three out of five, I think I can handle a little more heat, Tom. But show me anyhow."

"Hey, two out of five wasn’t bad for ME. You just have a damn good poker-face," I grin. "Here, there’s this one called ‘Drunkard’, which seems like a lotta fun to play." I smile at him conspiratorially.

"Where do you come up with these games?" He looks incredulous. "You’re making these up, aren’t you?"

"Nope, its there."

I turn the screen towards him as I pick up my glass to sip at the fruity, tangy drink.

"Look for yourself."

He leans forward to read and after a few seconds I watch a mischievous smile break on his face, as he flicks an eye at me.

"Yes, Tom, keep drinking that, it fits the mood of the game."

I pause in the middle of a mouthful and then reluctantly swallow the beverage, looking at him suspiciously.

"It’s fruit punch, Chakotay."

"Yes, fruit punch." His eyebrows waggle. "With a kick."

"You spiked it."

"Uh huh."

"With synthehol."

"You wound me, Tom." He feigns astonishment. "Don’t you know I don’t believe in fake-anything."

"Where did you get….?" I start to ask and then stop at the look on his face. "Never mind." He chuckles at me. "So you spiked both our drinks?"

"I didn’t say anything about spiking MY drink," he grins. "Here’s another lesson for you, Tom Paris: I am not really very fond of alcohol."

"So why did you spike mine?"

"To relax you."

He gulps down the last of his punch and begins to rise.

"Relax me?" I ask him, a little puzzled, as I hand him my empty glass.

"Yep." He leans forward to ruffle my hair as he stands up. "Relax you, help you drop your inhibitions, free you up a little bit."

"I think my inhibitions are lowered as they are." My eyes follow him to the recycler where he gets rid of the glasses. "Don’t you think?"

"To tell you the truth," he replies, putting the dishes from our dinner into the recycler, his back to me. "I think you’re a little tense."

My heart kicks start a drumming beat. "Tense?"

"Something’s on your mind."

His eyes are still averted but there’s a slight shift in his tone.

"You think so?" I swallow heavily.

"Uh huh."

I take a deep breath. "And how do you plan on helping me with that?"

He looks at me then, just for a second, his dark eyes looking straight at me, questing, asking, probing, and then he turns back to the recycler to punch the console.

"Well, alcohol has time and again proven to be a good means of clearing up the way towards a more unhindered course of conversation. Loosening one’s tongue, so to speak."

Loosening one’s tongue? I feel ice settle at the back of my spine. My throat is suddenly too tight but it’s time to confront him. He’s practically telling me what’s bothering him - albeit indirectly - and I have to take the proverbial bull by the horns. He still thinks I am lying to him. I have to settle the fucking score once and for all. No matter what the outcome.

I stand up and walk up to him. "You think I am lying, don’t you?"

He spins around on his heels to face me, his eyes wide. "Tom…"

"You think I made it all up, don’t you? That… that was some forged up tale that I came up with on the spur of the moment." Suddenly the pain is too much to bear. I didn’t want to break down in front of him but I can’t stop the sudden tears from pooling in my eyes. "Or perhaps you think I spent too much time thinking it up, making it up, you think that’s why it took so long for me to come to you, do you Chak?"

His eyes are burning, his face suddenly horrified. "Tom, NO!"

I angrily blink the tears away, my teeth gritting. "You think I’d lie to you, Chakotay?"

He takes a step forward and grabs my shoulders in his hands.

"NO, I DON’T. I KNOW you didn’t lie to me. I know you were telling the truth."

He squeezes my shoulders as if to convey his point, his eyes imploring.

"I believe you. I do, Tom."

"But… you didn’t say a word."

I look at him in confusion, suddenly unsure of what’s going on in his head, unsure what’s going on in mine. "It’s as if you weren’t gonna say anything at all. As if what I told you didn’t matter."

He sighs. "Oh, Tom. It MATTERS to me. And I do believe you. Hundred percent," His brown eyes stare into mine. "How CAN you lie to me? How can you, when I can look into your eyes? When I can look into these beautiful blue eyes and look straight down to your soul?"

I stare at him in disbelief, my heart fluttering like a caged bird suddenly finding freedom.

"Chak…"

"Has anyone ever told you… how gorgeous, how absolutely perfect your eyes are?" His voice is suddenly hoarse and I feel my throat constricting as his fingers slide up to rest below my chin, tilting my face up into perfect alignment so that he can really, really look into my soul. "They’re like the perfect summer sky, or the… breathtaking magnificence of the most beautiful untainted waters, they can drown me into their depths, take me into them, into you. Has anyone ever told you how these eyes, these beautiful eyes, could never possibly hide anything from anyone? How they could never possibly hide anything from me?"

I once again feel tears brimming into my eyes as I stare into his shining eyes with a wonderment I have never felt before in my life.

"If that’s true," I whisper, raggedly. "Then that night, when I came to return you the shell, in the observation lounge, why didn’t you believe me?"

"You caught me by surprise," he sighs again. "What was I supposed to do? I was pissed off for reasons beyond my comprehension and it wasn’t your fault but I was too mad to think rationally."

"And you believe me now?"

"Yes, I do."

"But you didn’t say a word. You didn’t even acknowledge what I was saying."

He takes a deep breath. "Tom, it took me THIS long to… process all the information that you’d given me."

"Chak?" I feel puzzled.

He gives my hand a squeeze. "You do agree that everything you told me about… has a slightly… insane ring to it, don’t you?"

Well… "Um, yeah."

His eyes stare into mine. "That it’s all kind of incredible, incomprehensible, a very, very puzzling scenario?"

"To say the least."

"So I needed some time to think it through."

"But if it was all so incomprehensible, why do you believe me now?"

His gaze falls down to our joined hands for a second, and then he looks up at me again.

"Well, I checked up with B’Elanna."

"What do you mean?" I ask, my brow furrowing.

"Tom, come here." He pulls me to the couch. "Sit down." His hand goes into his pocket and pulls out the shell." Look at this," He places it into his open palm in front of me. "What do you remember me telling you about it?"

I look at him feeling unsure about where this is going. But he just nods at me, encouraging me to venture forward, so I take a deep breath. "You did a scan on this."

"Yes, and?" he prompts.

"It was filled with sand. Sand that was indigenous to some planets in the delta quadrant."

"What else?"

I look at the shell, my heart thudding, and then up at him again. "You… you found fingerprints on it."

His brow smoothes out at this as if all he’d wanted was to know whether I had been paying attention to him earlier, and he nods in acknowledgement. "Yes. Only three sets, since I had been keeping this clean since the time it was given to me. Three sets of fingerprints: Mine, which is acceptable since it is my shell. Yours, again justifiable since you had it with you for some time. And finally, B’Elanna’s. That was the mystery, Tom. I couldn’t remember ever giving this shell to B’Elanna. She had seen it but I didn’t think she had ever held it in her hands. So, I asked her this morning. I asked her if she had ever taken this shell for any reason when we were on the Crazy Horse?"

I search his eyes. "What did she say?"

"Well," he says with a small smile. "First she gave me hell for making her ransack her entire quarters in order to hunt for the shell two days ago when it had been with me all along. And then she confirmed that she had never felt the need to take it for any reason whatsoever."

"You didn’t tell her I had it with me?"

"Of course not," he frowns. "That stays between us."

"You really believe me?"

His eyes are gentle. "Tom, it’s hard to make sense of all that you’ve told me, it’s such a strange, astounding tale." His thumb slowly strokes the top of my hand. "But despite all that, yes, I believe you."

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my rapidly beating heart. "You don’t think I am crazy?"

He pulls me into his arms. "Baby, no, you’re not crazy, I know that."

"I thought…" I choke, as finally the tears I’d been trying to keep away spill over. "I was so scared, Chak, I thought you wouldn’t…"

He doesn’t let me finish. Instead he pulls me in the warm safety of his arms, shushing me, running his hands over my back comfortingly. He murmurs soothing words into my ear, pulling me closer to him, as I tightly wind my arms around his shoulders, never wanting to let him go. And I finally let the tears flow.

He lets me cry, somehow yet again aware of my needs before I’ve had a chance to tell him, letting me take out all my frustrations. I find myself pulled on top of him as he settles against the back of the couch, holding me secure, holding me tight, his lips brushing my hair.

I silently thank the gods for all the miracles of the universe as I inhale his sweet, familiar, reassuring scent. Slowly my tears dry and my heartbeat returns to a somewhat normal speed and rhythm, and I look up into his eyes to find nothing but concern there. I bite my lower lip as one of my hands slides down his arm to settle on his clenched fist, opening his fingers one by one until his hand lies palm up on my thigh.

With one finger I trace the wavy edge of the seashell, protectively cradled in his palm, and look up into his brown eyes again.

"This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?" I ask him.

"Yes, it does."

I hold his gaze steadily, the countless questions in my eyes undoubtedly apparent to him. There’s so much I don’t know. There’s so much I need to know. How to ask? Where to start?

He recognizes my need yet again and nods at me.

With a deep sigh, he settles me into his arms more comfortably, and begins his tale.

 

It happened three years ago.

He had just resigned his commission at the rank of Lieutenant Commander, ending what would have been a promising career in Starfleet Tactical as one of their most cherished officers.

He simply had had no choice.

His father had been killed fighting the Cardassians, fighting for his people and his home world, in a war that should never have happened had the Federation kept their promise to serve its citizens as per the oath it had taken many years ago.

Chakotay’s surviving family was either in Cardassian prison camps or scattered all over the frontier rim. His home was in ruins, occupied by Cardassian military forces, leaving him no place to return to other than the battlefield.

With the fire of revenge and betrayal burning in his heart, he had embraced the Maquis resistance.

It was a difficult time for him. He was so filled with rage and pain that there were times, he says, that he couldn’t even see straight. All he wanted was to make all those who’d been responsible for the destruction of his home, to pay - and pay dearly.

It was amidst this period of rage and anguish, during a series of some very unsuccessful raid attempts on a particular Cardassian weapons depot, that Chakotay met Taleero for the first time.

It had been a tricky mission to begin with and Chakotay had been the person with the tactical know-how to effectively coordinate the attack so that his team could take out the weapons systems on the depot. For a moment it had seemed as if things were finally going to work out on this mission. They were halfway through in their job, having isolated the security and weapons systems of the depot, when suddenly a dampening field was raised around the block they were working in, rendering all their weapons useless, and his five-man team was surrounded by Cardassian military forces.

As they frantically worked to disrupt the dampening field around the complex, rigging connections and tweaking wires, they could hear the Cardies closing in on them from all directions. With the last detonator in place and the shields finally down, Chakotay attempted to pull out of the complex only to be shot, injured, and cornered himself by a Cardy.

With the Cardassian disrupter turned on ‘kill’ and aimed at his head, when it appeared he had attained the Maquis objective only to fail in his individual survival, he saw the alien get hit from behind and fall to his less than honorable death. He watched the old Indian man, clad in Maquis leathers, appear out of a hideout that he had been unaware of, promptly help him to his feet and whisk him away to safety.

It was only after they had been beamed back to the Crazy Horse and were sweeping away from the planet at maximum warp, that Chakotay was finally formally introduced to Taleero, the shaman.

As it turned out, Taleero had been part of the last Maquis team that had attempted to sabotage the depot a week ago. He had lost his team members in the attack and had been trapped inside the complex when the Cardassians raised shields around it. Somehow with the help of a rigged tricorder, he had managed to stay hidden this last whole week, without getting detected. When Chakotay got down the dampening field around the complex to get his team out, the room Taleero was trapped in was freed too.

In a way, both Taleero and Chakotay had saved each other’s lives.

Everyone on the frontier rim knew who Taleero was. On Dorvan V, his was a respected presence and name. He was a very wise man, he had good medicine, it would do one good to listen to the advice he gave, or so Chakotay had heard Kolopak - his father - say about the revered shaman time and again. Despite his big name, this was the first time Chakotay was meeting him.

And meeting him brought back some very painful memories.

Taleero had known Kolopak well. He had fought along his side and had watched him die with his own eyes. He said he had bonded with his tribesman as one does with their family. And he told Chakotay, because of that, he considered him family too.

The shell was given to Chakotay by Taleero.

It was only symbolic, the old Indian had told him. It was a gesture of bonding, of calling a person one of their own. He told Chakotay that possessing that shell was charmed, that the simple act of possessing it had strong medicine of its own. But he also said that the power was not the shell’s own. It was but a mere shell. An exoskeleton of a being that lived their entire lives in the deepest oceans, leaving behind nothing but a shiny, beautiful husk to remind one of their once-existence.

But sometimes you can find life within carnage, and hope within remnants of utter destruction.

The medicine belonged to the one who possessed the shell, Taleero said. The shell was just a symbol, it was the person’s own determination that served as the conduit through which those inner powers were channeled and brought out to the surface.

Taleero said he saw medicine in Chakotay.

Chakotay would’ve laughed if only the shaman hadn’t been so serious in his convictions.

The old Indian gave him the shell and said it would look after Chakotay as it had looked after him for so many years. He asked Chakotay to keep it as a reminder of their bond as fellow tribesmen and warriors. He asked him to keep the legacy of what Kolopak had left behind by continuing to fight for their freedom. Taleero believed Chakotay had it in himself to make his father proud.

Two weeks after he parted with the shell, Taleero was killed in a clash with Cardassian forces at a colony on Jemara IV.

Even though Chakotay wasn’t superstitious, he started keeping the shell on his person from then on - wearing it around his neck, never going anywhere without it.

And whether it had anything to do with the shell or not, Chakotay isn’t sure, but his luck changed. Astonishingly.

From that point on, every mission he went on, every raid he made, every fight he got involved in, his cell always came out on top. His extraordinarily relentless record caught the attention of Starfleet intelligence and they started coming after him with a vengeance. His name became associated with everything that was dangerous, intrepid and mysterious about the Maquis.

I very well remember my first impression when I joined the resistance and found out I was going to pilot for Chakotay. Sure, my reasons for joining were different from his, but I was still very much awed by his credentials and the name he had made for himself. I had actually thought to myself that if I was going to join a terrorist cell, which was my then interpretation of the freedom struggle, it was a good thing that I was at least joining one with a no-nonsense reputation.

So it always intrigued me when Starfleet caught me on my very first mission without much trouble at all.

Of course, at that time, I hadn’t known Tuvok was a Starfleet spy.

I wonder who else sent their operatives to penetrate the tightly woven fabric of Chakotay’s cell.

Chakotay says he has no idea why he left the shell in his cabin that night, before beaming over to Voyager for the first time.

He had thought it was with him.

He really had.

 

 

I hear his breathing gradually slow down as he finishes speaking, my back resting on his calmly rising and falling chest, my head on his shoulder. I cover the back of his right hand, threading my fingers through his, and turn my face up to brush my lips over his reassuringly. He meets my lips in a soft grateful kiss, his breath warm against my cheek.

He shifts backwards and helps me turn around so that I face him, and then slips his arms around me, pulling me over him, letting me cover his body. I feel the familiar flutter in my stomach start again as his hips gently rock against mine, his half-erect cock jutting against my groin from between our clothes, reminding me of his ultimate need for me. And mine for him. My heart beating fast, I tighten my arms around him and press him back, holding him captive against the backrest, kissing him hard, my tongue feverishly dipping into his sweet mouth and dueling with its mate.

We are both panting by the time we break, our breathing hitched, our faces flushed with desire. I want to grab him and go for it again but he just holds me in his arms, his hands rubbing over my back, trying to calm me down.

"Shh." He kisses me reverently. "Not now. Later, babe. I promise."

I reluctantly agree, sagging in his arms again, knowing there are things still left to be said. It takes me a few long moments to compose myself and then I look down at the shell in his other palm, casting rainbow hues in the soft light of his living room.

"It’s beautiful, Chak," I whisper.

He sighs and kisses the side of my neck. "Yes, it is."

I hear the change in his breathing and know he’s thinking troubling thoughts, though I can’t imagine what could be more troubling than opening your private life history in front of someone as he did in front of me a moment ago.

"Tom," he says as he tugs at my hand. "I need to ask you something," He places his hands on my shoulders, as he stares into my eyes. "This thing, it has been on my mind for the past two months, and I need you to answer me honestly, without prejudging my reaction to your answer." His eyes are sincere. "I just need to know."

Swallowing heavily, I nod at him.

He holds my face in his hands. "Tom, why did you agree to help Starfleet track my ship down?"

My first instinct is to get up and flee, as a small part of my heart screams that it’s the same old thing, that he’s still mistrusting me, that he thinks I betrayed him. But his eyes tell a different story, as he grips my shoulders firmly as though aware of my inner struggle. There is a slight desperation in the dark brown depths that tells me he really does need to know the truth.

The whole simple truth.

I sigh and close my eyes for a second, and then I open them to look into his eyes.

"I needed to get out of Auckland, Chakotay, even if it was only for a couple of weeks. I had NO knowledge whatsoever of any of your bases or hideouts so I couldn’t possibly have been any real help to Starfleet, you KNOW that. Sometimes I feel Captain Janeway knew that too. It was as if she herself wanted me to get out of Auckland even if it was just for a little while. I don’t know why. All I know is that, it was hell down there for me."

His eyes are sad as he strokes my cheeks with his fingers and then he nods in assent as he leans forward to kiss me again. I close my eyes and feel his lips and tongue moving over mine with sweet tenderness, as a heart-rending lightness invades my insides.

He accepts my answers, my heart says. He understands. Suddenly weak with relief, I slip my arms around his waist and sink into his warmth.

"When you were caught." He strokes my hair, his arms holding me tight, his breath a tad shaky. "When they took you away, Tom, I nearly went crazy."

I feel a pang of sadness go through me as I look into his eyes and see them fill with pain and regret. I had never before really thought of how it must have felt to him. Yes, Torres did tell me how it had happened, how Chakotay had felt as if he’d failed me when I was caught. But to see it with my own eyes, to notice his sorrow at losing me on a mission like that, his guilt at not knowing from beforehand that his cell was infested with spies from Starfleet and heaven knew who else out there, is a revelation in itself.

I card my fingers through his short-cropped hair in a small token of comfort.

"And then the trial came." His brow furrows. "And it was all over the fucking news."

I sigh. "So, I heard."

I watch his throat convulsing as his eyes dip to his lap, his brow knitted in some complex thought, and then he raises them again. "When I heard about the admiral, your father, being on the tribunal…"

"You probably thought I’d get off easy, huh?" I interrupt him.

He maintains eye contact, his hands warm behind my neck, fingers messaging my shoulder blades, and stays quiet, letting me continue.

"You probably didn’t expect me to be thrown into maximum security for fifteen years, did you Chak?"

"I’d admit I was shocked, Tom. Shocked beyond belief."

The corners of my mouth twitch, as suddenly the taste of my own saliva becomes bitter. I swallow with an effort.

"Don’t tell me you missed the whole media-celebrated public disowning of Admiral Paris’ only son."

There must be something in the tone of my voice and the grind of my teeth, because his eyes widen as he looks deeply into mine, searching them, somehow managing to read me like an open book. He takes a deep breath and takes my hands in his, rubbing the back of them.

"That was all over the news too, Tom."

Memories I haven’t thought of in a long time, memories I haven’t allowed myself to remember in what seems like forever but in truth is only a period of a mere two months, suddenly invade my mental landscape.

Happy dirt-covered hands digging into soft, slippery soil.

A small wooden bucket lying beside one bare thigh clad in baggy red bermuda shorts, grimy enough to keep any six-year old content.

The sound of a child’s laughter in my ear, my cousins Richie and Tammy bantering in our backyard, piquing my interest enough to turn around and look.

My eyes instead locking with the clear blues of my dad’s as he stands under the shade of the elm tree, tall and dignified as always, quietly observing me. The sudden smile on his face at my obvious devotion to my task.

The clear memory of my heart leaping in my chest at the surge of euphoria that fills my whole being at making him happy.

At making him proud.

"Tom, I am sorry for what happened," Chakotay says suddenly, bringing me out of my painful recollection, not aware of the track the train of my thoughts had taken a moment ago. "But you should remember," he continues softly. "Sometimes people say or do things at the spur of the moment, things they didn’t really mean, things that haunt them for the rest of their lives."

I smile weakly at his noble effort to make me feel better, but there’s too much bitterness, too much pain in my heart, as far as my relationship with my father is concerned. There’s too much water under the bridge for it to be conceived so simply.

"Thanks, Chak." I shake my head. "But somehow I doubt the admiral ever wavers from a decision he’s made."

He sighs. "I am just asking you to keep an open mind."

"I will."

Though, I wish it were that easy.

"Because I know what it’s like," he says with a pained edge to his husky voice. "To be at odds with one’s father."

I look at him then. His eyes are lowered to our joined hands, but the strife on his face is enough to explain the immense conflict within his heart.

Leaving the tribe to join Starfleet. Disappointing his father. Rejecting his tribe’s customs to embrace the New World’s ways but not fitting there either. Always being a contrary. In every world. In every place. His father’s death before either of them was able to reconcile their differences. Losing that chance forever.

To have the weight of that kind of guilt on one’s shoulders, regrets that can no longer be rectified, is suddenly too hard to imagine, too difficult to comprehend. All of a sudden, my own pain seems too insignificant.

I touch his face. "Yes, you do." I feel as if a gift has been given to me, and probably it has. "You DO know it." On an impulse, I throw my arms around him and hug him fiercely, kissing his face. "You, you really understand, Chak." My voice shakes with relief.

He hugs me back, his arms tight around me and his fingers tangling inside my hair. "Yes, I do, I know how you feel, Tom," he sighs reassuringly.

"Chak, I thought I had lost you." I bite my lip, struggling to keep my voice steady. God, if it hadn’t been for the shell….

He pulls me back then, his eyes staring into mine. "I am right here, Tom." He kisses the tip of my nose. "You got me."

And then, his eyes locked with mine, I watch as a strange, alien expression passes over his face. His eyes sparkle as if rejuvenated with a new life, and I stare at him in confusion, as he opens my hand and settles it palm up over his thigh.

"Tom."

I gape at him in stupefaction as he slips the shell inside my open palm.

"I want you to keep this shell from now on."

What is going on? I drop the shell back into his hand as if I’ve been burnt.

"What are you saying, Chak?" I squeak. "It’s your shell. It belongs to you."

"Yes." Chakotay picks it up and puts it in my palm again. "It belongs to me and I want to give it to you. I am giving it to you, Tom. Remember, it can be passed on to anyone I want like Taleero passed it on to me?"

"And you remember what happened to Taleero after he gave this to you?" I frown. "He got KILLED."

"Tom, you don’t understand…"

I throw down my hands in frustration. "I understand perfectly, Chakotay. This shell looks AFTER you. It keeps you safe, that’s why it was given to you. It’s too important to you. I told you what happened when you went down to Ocampa without carrying it with you. You DIED. It’s charmed, Chak. It watches over you."

"Don’t you see, that’s all changed now? You had the shell with you and you saved my life. You hold my life in your hands now."

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with the shell and with you and me, don’t you see? You saved my life, you hold my life in YOUR hands now. My keeping the shell is of no consequence whatsoever anymore."

I stare at him. Could this be what I think he’s saying? But what about what happened to Taleero? And to Chakotay when he didn’t have the shell with him?

"I don’t understand," I prod.

He holds my shoulders in place as he struggles to put his words together. "The point is, I’d rather, I’d rather have the guy who saved MY life and who is now the keeper of… my soul." He halts cautiously and then continues. "I’d rather have him safe and sound, you know. I’d rather have YOU safe and sound, Tom."

It IS what I thought he was saying. But what about the fact that it was given to him by someone who was from his own tribe, his own people?

"Chak?"

"Don’t you see?" His eyes are shining. "This shell is passed on in the name of the bond. It’s a symbol of making a person one of your own. Of taking someone in your tribe, in your family, in your heart. To bond with someone. We bonded on the Ocampa stairs when you saved my life and called me on the life-debt. I want to give this to you to reaffirm my faith in our bond, Tom."

I am speechless. I don’t know how to respond. He stares at me, his eyes searching mine for any clue, waiting for my response, but I am so overwhelmed by his words and his sentiments that I mutely stare at him - stunned into silence.

He mistakes my silence for rejection. The light in his eyes suddenly dims with hurt and disappointment.

"Unless," he stammers, suddenly looking very unsure, upping my astonishment a few notches. "Unless you don’t," His throat convulses with obvious pain. "You don’t WANT to be one of my own, I mean, as a friend, and a bond-mate and --."

Dammit, does he really think that I would give up the chance to be his friend, his bond-mate?

"Chakotay." I grasp his shoulders and pull him unresisting to me. "I’d love to be your bond-mate. I’d be honored." I hug him tightly, feeling his heart thudding against my chest. "I just -- I just don’t think I am worthy of it."

He crushes me to him. "I deem you worthy. I want to make your mine, Tom." He pulls back a little to look at my face and the look of profound relief in his eyes, at whatever he sees there, is priceless. "You really DO mean it."

"Of course I do, Chakotay. I love you," I blurt out, and then freeze as I feel him stiffen in my arms. I wasn’t supposed to say this. It’s too soon. Things are moving very fast. This was supposed to be my secret. I have no idea how he’ll take this.

He holds my face between his hands and I scrunch my eyes shut, not having the strength to see the ridicule in his eyes, as he shifts back to look at me.

"Spirits, Tom."

I start as I feel his thumb stroking my cheek and feeling somewhat baffled, open my eyes to stare at him.

He groans, "I don’t ever wanna let you go."

I blink in amazement at his chiseled features, notice the suspicious shine in his beautiful brown eyes, and feel my heart jump in my throat as he leans forward to kiss me first on my right cheek, then on my left, and then on my chin.

"Tell me, Tom, how much?" He mumbles before he covers my lips with his.

I moan into the sizzling hot kiss, his mouth moving against mine, his velvet lips working their magic on my frazzled nerves. I wrap my fingers in his hair and disengage our lips.

"How much what?" I pant, feeling my cock surging to life to thresh inside my pants.

He kisses my eyelids and zeroes in on my lips again, "Tell me how much you -- love me," and then presses me back on the couch, sliding on top of me.

"I love you, Chak," I moan into his mouth, as he slides my tee shirt off my torso and I feel his hands sliding over my chest and his fingers tangling into my chest hair. "I love you so much that it hurts, I love you so much that it’s impossible to keep it inside me anymore."

"Then show me, Tom." He looks into my eyes. "I want you to show me how much you love me."

"I… I am afraid," I gulp.

A frown appears on his brow. "What are you afraid of?"

"That… that it won’t be enough." I wet my suddenly dry lips, my heart hammering inside my chest. "That I’ll fail you again."

He laughs, delighted. "You can never fail me, Tom. You didn’t before either. It wasn’t your fault. What matters is the present, this lifetime. In this lifetime, you saved me. My life belongs to you now. Knowing that is enough for me." His voice takes on a husky edge. "Your love is enough for me, Tom, you’re all I ever wanted."

I feel tears brimming in my eyes. "Chak…"

He leans forward and brushes his lips over my nose. "I said, show me, Tom. NOW."

I don’t make him wait anymore. I push him back on the couch and pulling his tee shirt out of his jeans, I peel it off his chest and over his arms in one swift motion. I then cover his body with mine, his skin hot and slippery against my chest, and kiss him frenziedly, thrusting my tongue into his hot mouth. Groaning against my nipping teeth, he undulates his hips against mine, his hands clutching my ass as my fingers claw at the zipper of his jeans.

"Not enough space," I growl with frustration, trying to settle comfortably on the unyielding couch.

And with that I find myself airborne, as Chakotay picks me up off him and standing up from the couch, strides off towards his bedroom, clutching me in his arms like a prize won at a bounty fair.

"Um, Chak?" I manage, as the swishing doors admit us to his bedroom and I am unceremoniously dumped in the middle of his large bed.

"Lots of space here," he grins at me, then laughs at the incredulous look on my face, the sound of his voice beautiful in my ears. He leans over me, and sliding his fingers inside the belt-line of my pants, yanks them open and slides them and my underwear down my hips. I feel myself turning hot at his long appreciative look down my body, and as he stands back and tugs at his own jeans, a feeling of déjà vu passes through me.

I spring forward on my knees and grab his hands, halting him in his task. "Oh NO, you don’t," I growl, and wrapping my arms around his waist, pull him roughly to me, sinking my face into his warm skin.

With a drawn-out moan he throws his head back, as my tongue dips into his navel to tease him for a second or two before spiraling its way up his abdomen and onto his chest, my teeth tugging at his dark nipples.

I can hear him gasping and before he can take another breath, I have spun him around and have laid him out on the bed under me like a five-course meal, ready to be devoured. And devour him I do, as my eyes first rake up and down his glistening, smooth skin, and then my head dips and my mouth captures his lips eagerly parted in anticipation. He chuckles against my mouth, his hands gripping my bare ass from behind and kisses me back, his hips thrusting upward to tease my hard, burning cock.

"What’s so FUNNY?" I pout at him, as I shift up to unlatch our mouths, and yank his jeans open, finally sliding them off his rocking hips. The seashell slides out of the side pocket of his jeans and into my hand, and I hold it into my palm for a second, feeling its warmth transferring to me. I then squeeze it once, reverently, and place it on the side table, catching his reassured glance. I bend down to lick his nose tip to add to his reassurance and feel him shaking with much merriment beneath me.

"YOU are," he laughs, flashing his dimples, his hand sliding over my back, tracing fiery trails up my spine with his skilled fingers. "Spirits, if you could just see the look on your face, Tom."

"Hey, it’s not MY fault that you look so damn scrumptious that…" I part his thighs with my knees to settle between them, and groan as our nova hot cocks come into perfect alignment with each other. "That… I could just eat you."

"Then eat me," he grunts, sliding his fingers inside my hair. "Take me, Tom."

I look into his eyes then, wanting to confirm his longing for me, and am startled by the play of emotion on his features. His eyes sparkle with warmth and tenderness, as he holds my face in his palms and looks deeply into my eyes.

"I love you, Tom," he tells me.

I forget everything then.

I forget Lovaugim. I forget the Maquis. I forget the Kazon and Seska and the bullies and the gangs and all the shit that I experienced in that other lifetime, all the non-reality which only I was cursed to remember and live out in its abominable entirety.

I forget all my failures and my loss and my pain.

I forget it all. For none of that matters anymore.

I just see the concern in his beautiful eyes as he kisses me over and over again, calling my name, trying to rouse me out of my daze. I just hear his affirmation looping into my mind like a delightfully stuck favorite record. I love you. I love you. I love you, Tom.

I fall over his lips and kiss him once, and kiss him again, and grabbing his wrists and pulling them over his head, I kiss him over and again and harder than ever.

Somewhere in the haze, I hear the sound of his delighted laughter trickling into my consciousness once again and I smile into his warm, wet mouth.

I love you, Tom, he said.

God, that’s all I ever needed to know. I believe I can wrap my whole life around these four beautiful words and spend an eternity worshiping this wonderful, enigmatic man.

I love you.

I love you, Chakotay.

**THE END**


End file.
